Hearts, Hope, and Diamonds
by curlycue2102
Summary: Sequel to Jack of Knives Queen of Poison. Irene/Holmes/OC/Watson. Bromance. Irene comes to Holmes with a little problem.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh my gosh! How exciting, the beginning of the sequel! I to anyone reading this who hasn't read the first story, please check it out because this really won't make sense if you don't.**

**Disclaimer: I only own Clara.**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter I**

The hazy yellow glow of the gas lamps cast a somber light on the cluttered room. Outside, it was a clear spring night in London; the stars glimmered brightly in the distance against their dark, velvety backdrop. Inside 221B Baker Street, three people sat together in a room; two men and a woman, an odd combination, especially so late at night. It was clear that the three knew one another well, but an air of sorrow hung around them. One man sat in a chair, and the other knelt in front of him. The bond between the two was almost tangible – they were the closest of the group. The woman was flustered, for some reason. She stood behind a sofa, choosing to observe the scene rather than participate in it. Upon closer inspection, the three could be distinguished as Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Clara Barker.

"What happened," the kneeling man, Sherlock Holmes, asked in concern.

The sitting man, Dr. Watson, couldn't bear to look at either of his companions, so, he closed his eyes. "It's Mary," he replied hoarsely.

Holmes glanced back at the woman. She held his gaze for a few moments, before snapping her eyes back to Watson. A million thoughts and assumptions were running through her head, and it was enough to make her dizzy.

"She," Watson stuttered, his voice rough with emotion, "She's dead, Holmes." The poor man put his face in his hands and tried to hold himself together. However, he failed, and soon he started crying against his will.

Sherlock Holmes blinked twice, trying to process the information his friend had just given him. Clara weakly took a seat on the couch, tears of sympathy silently streaming down her face. She hadn't known his wife well, but the sheer despair that emanated from her friend's body was too much for her to handle.

"How?" Was all Holmes could manage to get out.

He placed a hand on Watson's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He'd never seen his friend in such a state of emotional agony and he didn't quite know how to handle it. He himself was not an emotional man, and therefore it was difficult for him to empathize with others. However, this was Watson – his best friend, his closest companion, his_brother._ To see him in such misery made Holmes wish he could bear the pain instead.

"She – she – I don't – she fell down the stairs. I couldn't – if I just – _Oh _God, Holmes, if I'd just gotten to her in time –" he stammered.

"Shh, Watson, shh," Holmes soothed, rubbing his upper arms as if to warm him up.

"She broke her neck," he said, looking at the ground, his face contorted in sorrow. "I was out – I'd gone to the grocer for her. When I came back – the maid – the maid tried to _move_ her, Holmes. If I'd just been there – I could have saved her!"

"Watson, don't you blame yourself, do you hear me? You and I both know that a broken neck can lead to immediate death – it's likely that you couldn't have done anything…" Holmes said.

"_Can_ lead to immediate death. What if – what if it was asphyxiation that killed her? If she hadn't been moved…" Watson choked.

"And that's not even the worst part," Watson continued, letting out a half-laugh half-sob. "She was expecting," he murmured. "We were going to have a _child_, Holmes," he said, finally looking at his friend.

When Holmes saw the look in his friend's clear, blue eyes, he had to blink rapidly to stop himself from getting teary-eyed as well. They were so full of sadness, so broken; it was unlike anything he had ever seen before. He'd dealt with death on a regular basis, but, right now, Watson was letting him see inside his very soul; no one else had ever allowed him to do such a thing. All Holmes could think to do was embrace his friend.

When Clara heard his words, she covered her mouth and nose to muffle her crying. No one deserved such pain, especially not Watson. Why was he being punished in such a way? He was one of the kindest, noblest people she knew; why did such a terrible thing have to happen to him? He was on the verge of having everything he wanted – a wife, a child, a _family_, and now it was gone – just like that.

"What am I going to do?" Watson mumbled into Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes pulled back and studied Watson's face. "I don't know," he replied, shaking his head.

"I can't – I can't go back there. The memories – " Watson began.

"You'll stay here, of course," Holmes interjected resolutely.

"Come," Clara said gently. It was the first time she had spoken since Watson's entrance. "I think it'd be best if you get some sleep," she stated, helping Watson over to the sofa.

He nodded and went to lie down, barely acknowledging her. Clara took a blanket off of Holmes' bed and spread it over Watson. When she had finished tending to him, she stood beside Holmes and hooked her arm through his. Together, they watched in sadness as their friend drift into an uneasy sleep.

The funeral was…well, it happened. And Watson held up well enough, his steely-blue eyes fixed on the ground for most of the ceremony. Mary's father held his wife as she cried in woe, and the tears of all the church goers could have been used to fill the Trevi Fountain.

Watson's condition was improving as time went on, though, and he had moved back into 221B Baker Street. Because Clara was living in his old room, he stayed in Holmes'. The thing about Watson was that he was not a brooding man, unlike Holmes. If such a tragedy had occurred to Holmes (although, it is unlikely Holmes would ever place himself in such a position to begin with), he would dwell on it for quite a while; years, even. His repressed emotions would consume him from the inside. Watson, on the other hand, by opening himself to emotion, allowed himself to recover faster. He didn't resort to alcohol or other vices, and therefore was able to keep his thoughts clear. Luckily, as a doctor, he had a natural sense of what was healthy, both physically and mentally.

But, that isn't to say he didn't have a difficult time. Many a night, he would awake in a cold sweat, quietly mumbling Mary's name, and Holmes would try to comfort him to the best of his not-so-extensive ability. Holmes was completely out of his element in such situations; if you asked him to do something analytical, something that required science, he would have no problem, but affairs of the heart were a different story entirely. He'd often been criticized for being mechanical, robotic, and he could see the truth in such complaints.

It wasn't so much that he was incapable of emotion; it was just that he refused to succumb to it. In his opinion, emotion was for the weak-minded. Sensitivity, to him, was one of Watson's greatest and only flaws. But, Watson was his foil – where he went left, Watson went right; that's what made them so compatible. As clichéd as it may seem, they completed one another; Watson was the heart and Holmes was the brain. And, now, what had once separated them had brought them together again, making closer than ever.

Watson only wanted to see Holmes. Clara had tried to help, she tried to support him, but the only person he would listen to was Holmes, which caused her to feel utterly helpless. She was hurt and confused as to why he didn't want to have anything to do with her, but she tried to be understanding and respected his wishes.

When her thoughts weren't with Watson, they were with Holmes. She wondered more than anything what he thought of her. When she had kissed him that night, he'd kissed her back – that had to count for something, right? But now, Watson was back. She didn't want to be the Mary of this situation – she didn't want to break them apart (_I shouldn't flatter myself with the notion that I actually could even if I wanted to, though…_ she thought wryly). Why did she need someone, anyway? It was companionship that she wanted, not necessarily marriage. Perhaps things could just stay as they were – however, that was unlikely. Nothing ever stayed the same – a lesson she had learned long ago. But, she'd approached him about it (which, in hindsight, was probably a mistake).

**_Flashback…_**

"Holmes, where does this leave us?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he countered impatiently.

"You know what I'm talking about. The other night…" she trailed off.

"Clara, right now, our primary concern is Watson's mental health," he said coldly.

She bit her lip, slightly hurt. "Yes, I understand that, of course. But, I just want to know where we stand. I mean, I have these _feelings_ for you… and I – I don't know – just tell me this: am I wasting my time?" she stammered.

He looked at her, his gaze softening. "Don't be like this… The reason we work so well together is that we don't bother each other with such trivial matters. Emotions are superfluous – they hold absolutely no purpose whatsoever. Matters such as these are the only things I choose _not _to analyze, and I suggest you do the same," he replied.

"Please, Holmes. I know you're not just some machine, like everyone says. I know you have a heart – I've seen it! With John, the way you treat him – I can tell. Why can't you just give me a chance to show you…" she said.

"Clara, in my extensive dealings with mankind, I have found that people, when given the opportunity, will always betray you. Always. So, please forgive me if I'm not willing to make myself vulnerable to a barrage of irrational _emotions_," he said, spitting the last word in contempt.

"John hasn't betrayed you," she countered bravely, her voice trembling with sincerity.

Holmes faltered for a microsecond. "He ran off with Mary. For _love_; and just look where that's gotten him now," he replied quietly.

"How do you know you can't trust me, though? I've never given you reason to doubt me! What do I have to do to prove to you that I'm trustworthy?" she pleaded, "Just tell me. I'll do anything – whatever you ask."

Holmes let out a sigh of frustration. "What do you want from me, Clara? Some profession of love? Is that what you're looking for? If that's what it is, then you are wasting your time. It's been nearly a year, don't you know me at all?" he questioned.

"Do you think me a fool? I've seen how fickle you are – nigh a month ago you were pitching after Watson," he added quietly.

Clara was at a loss for words – he had a point.

"You know that I am right," he continued, "Why on earth would I subject myself to the torments of such sentiments as love?"

"Because, Sherlock," she began passionately, "it could make you happier than you've ever been before."

"I suppose I'd rather not know what I'm missing, then," he said coldly, turning away from her.

"Plus," he added, "you don't love me. You've been exposed to an array of emotions lately, and this is just your way of dealing with it. You feel like you _should _love me, but that doesn't mean that you actually do."

Again, he had a point. But now, the rejection was overwhelming. She'd been pushed away by not one, but _two_ of the men she'd cared about.

"How can you be so cruel?" she choked, "Maybe you _are_ as cold and heartless as they say." She'd meant for her words to hurt him, but she didn't stay around to find out if they had; the door slammed loudly and Clara was gone.

Holmes sighed and leant his head against the wall. This was the last thing he needed in addition to caring for Watson.

"_Women_," he muttered irritably.

**_End Flashback_**

It had been almost a month since Mary's passing. Watson had taken to burying himself in work to deal with the pain, and Clara and Holmes had begun to act normal around him as to not remind him of the predicament. He was improving – he would get over it, Holmes could tell, which relieved him greatly; he had feared that his friend might never be the same. But, that wasn't to say that he would be back to normal anytime soon. No, Holmes judged it would be at least six more months until his friend was even the shadow of the man he once was. The best thing he and Clara could do for him now was distract him.

However, at Baker Street, things were strained. Together, Holmes and Clara tried to support Watson, but it was difficult for them to remain civil with one another. Also, they didn't want Watson to pick up on any tension between the two, for it would only serve to further trouble him. Needless to say, the atmosphere in 221B was a dark swirl of sorrow, anger, and desperation. Even Mrs. Hudson tried not to interact with Holmes, Watson, or even Clara unless it was absolutely necessary; negativity simply radiated from the top two rooms of the house.

And thus began a steady routine of forced small-talk, emotional breakdowns, and exasperated seclusion. Clara grew apart from the two men of the house and became even more withdrawn and introverted than she was before, and the worst part was that neither of them seemed to care. This monotonous, depressing fog was not broken until a beautiful sunny day in the beginning of June.

Holmes had just returned from the tailor's – he had been picking up some new dress shirts. When he returned to Baker Street, Clara was shut in her room, as usual, and Watson was nowhere to be found. Shortly after he set his package down on his dresser, he heard the front door slam – Holmes' suspicion that it was Watson was confirmed when he heard the _tap _of his walking stick.

He was about to greet his friend, when a white handkerchief lying on his desk caught his eye – it hadn't been there before. Slowly, he picked it up and recognized it immediately. The initials "I A" embroidered in the right hand corner gave the owner away.

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A/N: Please review and let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Chapter 2! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope everyone likes this one :) **

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**Chapter II**

They were ignoring her. It was devastating, to put it bluntly. After finally feeling as if she was meant for something greater than the life of a simple country girl, Clara was back to the old recluse she once was. But, she couldn't feel sorry for herself – it could be worse, she could have ended up like Watson. _Poor, poor John_, she thought woefully. She hadn't particularly liked Mary, but she certainly would never wish death upon her. And now, Watson was ignoring her for reasons that were a mystery. She could understand why Holmes was shunning her, but she hadn't done anything to Watson. Perhaps it was just his way of dealing with grief.

When she was a young girl, her grandmother, her mother's mother, died. She remembered how, for months, her mother would only speak to her husband – maybe this was a similar situation. She laughed bitterly – for a moment, she had thought that she was close to the two men. She felt utterly foolish for having let herself believe that she could ever be an important part of their lives. They would never fully accept her – she was an outsider and they already had each other. She had just been Holmes' temporary substitute for Watson, nothing more.

It was a painful realization, and she clutched Alastair, her cat, to her chest tightly, crying softly into his fur. Unbeknownst to her, Holmes was standing outside her door, just about to knock. He heard her muffled sniffs and felt an uncharacteristic tinge of remorse shoot through him – he hadn't meant for her to take his words so badly.

"Clara," he said gently, lightly knocking on the door.

There was a shuffle of fabric which was, presumably, Clara composing herself. When she opened the door, though her eyes were slightly red, she showed no other signs of having been crying.

"Yes?" she said with forced cheeriness.

When he saw her and how hard she was trying to keep herself together, he felt horrible. He'd contributed (rather significantly) to her misery and he had never really meant to. Without thinking, he embraced Clara gently in an almost paternal fashion. She was surprised and moved, as this was the first time Holmes had initiated any affectionate contact with her. She couldn't help herself from crying – she clung to his shirt tightly and mumbled "I'm sorry" repeatedly into his chest. He shushed her and assured her that it was alright, and that they wouldn't have to fight anymore. When Clara seemed to have collected herself, Holmes decided to tell her why he'd come.

"I've found something of particular interest in my room, and Watson and I are going to investigate. Would you like to come?" Holmes asked.

Clara face lit up at the mention of "investigate." She was beyond touched by the fact that he'd thought to include her in their quest.

"Why, of course," she said eagerly. He flashed her a quick smile.

"Excellent," he said, "Let us go get Watson, then."

*

"How do you know she'll be at the Grand?" Watson asked, looking out the carriage window.

"She wants us to find her," Holmes stated simply.

"That's where our wedding reception was…" Watson muttered softly. Clara put a hand on his knee comfortingly. He smiled painfully at her.

"It's fine," he said quietly.

When they arrived at the hotel, Holmes immediately knew which room she was staying in.

"How do you know that's where she's staying?" Clara asked skeptically. Holmes glanced at Watson nervously before replying.

"It's our room," he said simply. Clara's eyes widened in understanding – a pang of something akin to jealousy briefly shot through her.

When Irene opened the door, Holmes held up her white handkerchief. "The woman from the photograph," Clara muttered under her breath.

"You summoned me?" he said sarcastically, handing her the piece of cloth.

"Oh, Sherlock," she purred with her velvety American accent, "I knew you would come."

"What can I say," he started wryly, "I never could resist a damsel in distress."

"Oh, and you brought guests!" she said, suddenly acknowledging Clara and Watson.

"Hello, doctor," she said, giving Watson her hand.

When she got to Clara, she asked, "And you are…?"

Clara shifted awkwardly, intimidated by the other woman's natural grace and beauty – why was it that all the women Watson and Holmes knew were so gorgeous?

"Clara Barker," she said shortly.

"Irene Adler," Irene said elegantly, shaking Clara's hand. "How is it you know Sherlock?" she said. Her voice was sweet, but her words were subtly laced with malice.

"We live in the same building," Clara replied lamely.

"Hmm, interesting," Irene said almost mockingly, looking at Holmes.

To save Clara from any further torment, Holmes interjected, "What is it that you want from me, Irene?"

"I'm in a bit of a predicament," she said simply, offering them a drink. Holmes shook his head wildly in refusal, as if to warn Clara and Watson to do the same.

"What kind of predicament?" Holmes asked.

"I've had something stolen from me," she replied vaguely.

"You," Holmes began confusedly, "have had something stolen _from_ you?"

"I can see that this is a difficult concept for you to grasp, Sherlock, but yes," she said patronizingly.

"What was it that was stolen, exactly?" he asked, ignoring her tone.

"A diamond necklace of extreme _sentimental_ value," she replied.

Holmes scoffed, "Sentimental my – "

"_Holmes!" _Watson interrupted. "There are ladies present," he said.

"I'm sorry to have offended you, my dear," he told Watson cheekily. However, turning back to Irene, he said, "How big was it?"

Irene grinned at him. "Oh not _too_ big, about 45 and a half carats," she replied lightly.

Watson and Clara's eyes almost bulged out of their heads, while Holmes, on the contrary, seemed unfazed.

"I see," he said mechanically. "A gift?" he asked. Clara noticed a trace of bitterness in his tone.

"Yes," she said, smiling wolfishly.

"You're not married right now, though," he said, glancing to her ring finger, which was bare.

"No," she confirmed, maintaining her smile.

"I see," Holmes repeated stuffily. "Does he know it's missing?" he asked.

"No, not yet," she replied seriously, "and it's imperative that I get it back before he finds out."

"And why is that?" Holmes asked.

"Well, it's sort of a – how shall I put this? – a _family heirloom,_" she answered.

"Who gave it to you?" he pressed.

Irene smiled proudly. "Why, Lord Francis Hope," she said.

"The Hope Diamond," Holmes said in disbelief. "You've lost the bloody _Hope Diamond?"_ he asked.

"You seem surprised," Irene said calmly.

"I shouldn't be," Holmes muttered. "What makes you think I'll help you?" he asked.

Irene smiled charmingly and lightly touched his chest. "I thought you said you couldn't resist a damsel in distress," she cooed.

"Plus," she added, dropping her seductive act, "you look like you need something to keep you busy."

"They say it's cursed," she said, smirking.

"You know I don't believe in such fallacies," Holmes scoffed.

"Well, then, what better opportunity to prove the myths wrong," she countered.

"Fine, I'll do it," Holmes conceded.

"Wonderful," Irene replied happily.

"Where and when did you lose it?" Holmes asked professionally.

"Well, the last time I wore it I was at a dinner party with the Lord with some of his work friends – his wife was in the country with relatives. When I woke up the next morning, it was gone from the safe I had put it in the night before," she answered.

"Alright," Holmes began, "I need you to draw up a list of everyone that was at that dinner party. And I mean _everyone_ – even the musicians, the maids, the cooks, etc. Have it delivered to me when you are finished."

"OK," Irene said, "I'll let you know as soon as possible."

*

"Oh, Holmes, you're your own worst enemy," Watson said to his friend.

"What is it about her?" Holmes said in frustration, tinkering with his violin.

"I could think of a few things," Clara said wryly, thinking of Irene's extraordinary beauty. "Clearly, she has some sort of power over you," she added.

"Don't be preposterous. _No one_ has power over me," he said defiantly.

"If you say so," Clara replied, unconvinced. "Though, I wouldn't exactly think you to be her type," she added.

"And why is that?" Holmes asked testily.

"Well, I see her as somewhat manipulative, and you are by no means easily manipulated," Clara replied.

"Maybe she enjoys the challenge," Watson teased, smiling slightly at his friend's discomfort.

"I think you've analyzed this enough, thank you," Holmes grumbled.

While Clara enjoyed teasing Holmes about Irene on the outside, the fact that they had had a romantic relationship secretly was eating away at her. If Irene was truly Holmes' type, she had no chance whatsoever.

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**A/N: I hope no one thinks Irene is too OOC, I didn't really get a strong sense of how she should be in the movie for some reason, so I kind of just made up how I think she would act. I don't know, I just didn't think the female roles in the movie were very strong, but maybe that's just me. I feel like they had no depth. Ah, well, that's just my opinion. I'm trying not to be biased, though. Please review!!!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Gosh guys, I'm really sorry this took so long. I'm having horrible writer's block like I've never experienced before (that isn't to say that I've had a whole lot of experience in the matter, but still...). I don't know why this is happening, but I think it probably shows in this chapter, I'm sorry :(. Still, I hope you guys enjoy this.  
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**Chapter III**

Clara, Holmes, and Watson sat in Holmes' room. They had been lounging, waiting for Irene's response, and it had become quite late.

"Holmes?" Clara asked quietly – she didn't want to wake Watson, who had fallen asleep while reading the paper.

"Yes?" he replied.

"How did you meet Irene?" she asked.

He laughed and leaned back in his chair.

"The King of Bohemia contacted me and requested that I track her down and take a photograph from her. Naturally, I accepted the job, but when I finally thought I had secured the picture, it was gone. She had realized my scheme and taken it, replacing it with a note," he replied.

"That was the only time anyone ever outwitted me," he reminisced fondly.

"_That's _why you admire her so," Clara said in realization.

"I suppose you could say that," he replied, "but only admire. Nothing more."

"Oh please, Holmes. You don't honestly mean to suggest that there is nothing besides admiration between the two of you, do you? It is quite clear that you have a little more than a platonic relationship, to say the least," she answered.

"And on what, pray tell, do you base that bold assumption?" Holmes countered haughtily.

"Well, the tone she used when speaking to you was indication enough. Oh yes, and I almost forgot, the fact that the pair of you have a 'room,'" she reasoned.

"How observant of you," he began sarcastically, "Alright, I admit it, we do have a bit of a _past_. But that's precisely what it is: a past."

"Hmm. It didn't look like a past," Clara said skeptically. "Plus," she added, "if it were a past, why would you agree to help her?"

"Jealously isn't becoming of you, Miss Barker," Holmes said, tired of the conversation.

"I'm going to bed. I will talk to you in the morning," she said abruptly. With that, she left the room.

Holmes lay down on his bed and groaned exasperatedly. Why was it that this woman was causing him so much trouble? Why had he agreed to work with Irene? He should have known that it would only bring conflict. But, perhaps her presence would get Clara off his back for the time being. If he knew one thing about Irene, it was that she was exceedingly competitive. Holmes grinned to himself cockily; the mere thought of the two women fighting over him (of all people) was enough to bring a smug smile onto his face. Maybe this wouldn't be _so_ bad after all.

*

"Mistah Holmes! Mistah Holmes!" followed by a loud knocking, was the sound that woke the household. Holmes groggily rose from his bed and opened his door. Standing before him was a young boy of about eleven years of age. He was dirty and presumably very poor, judging by his low accent.

"What is it, boy?" Holmes asked gruffly.

"A Miss Irene Adler asked me to deliver this to you," he said, handing him an envelope.

Holmes took the envelope and tossed the boy a coin. The boy caught the coin happily and tipped his hat at Holmes. Clara, who had been awakened by the noise, slowly drifted into Holmes' room.

"Is that from Adler?" she asked. Holmes nodded his head in affirmation. Watson, too, had been awoken and was looking at the letter with interest. Holmes opened the envelope and began to read the letter aloud.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I would first like to extend to you my deepest thanks. It really is quite imperative that I retrieve the diamond; Lord Hope is a very powerful man, as I am sure you are aware. I believe that the motive for the thievery is clear, seeing as the diamond is rather valuable. Below are a list of the guests and staff who were at the dinner party the night of the theft. _

_Host: Lord James Weaver_

_Gayle Knightly, Lord Weaver's mistress_

_Lord Francis Hope, rightful owner of the necklace_

_Dr. Alaric Wright_

_Elizabeth Berkley, Dr. Wright's escort_

_Gregory Blake, esteemed lawyer _

_Margot Smith, Mr. Blake's escort_

_Maids/Waitresses: Eliza McIntyre, Mary Halstrom, Anne Stevens, Violet Quinn, and Sarah Lindent _

_Butlers/Waiters: Mark Black, Robert Taylor, Stephen Cooper, and William Tress_

_Cook: Katherine Graystone_

_Entertainment: A travelling Indian group consisting of Amal Patel and his daughters Antara, Devyani, and Mala_

_I am sorry that my response is a bit tardy; it took me a significant amount of time to learn the names of all the servants and entertainers. Whoever stole the diamond had to have gone into my room and taken it without waking either Lord Hope or myself, which would have been a difficult feat. I hope that you are able to quickly solve this case, for my own sake. Also, I am sincerely regretful that I was not able to deliver this letter in person; I am currently occupied with ordering a temporary decoy diamond. When I have completed all of my obligations, I will join you in the search. For now, I wish you the best of luck, and please give my regards to the doctor and your other little friend._

_Always Yours,_

_Irene_

"Your little friend?!" Clara asked in an enormously offended tone.

Holmes laughed at her anger. "Yes, it appears that was in reference to you," he teased.

"What do we do now?" Watson asked, interrupting what was sure to have been a dispute between Holmes and Clara.

"Interview the suspects," Holmes stated thoughtfully.

"Starting with…?" Watson pressed.

"Lord Weaver," Holmes finished.

*

Lord Weaver's butler had allowed the trio into the main foyer. The house was beautiful, and before them was a rich mahogany staircase. From what they could see, the interior of the home was warm and plush. Clearly, the owner had a penchant for decadence. After a few minutes, Lord Weaver greeted them. He was a tall, lanky man who appeared much younger than he actually was. He had wispy grayish-blonde hair, but his face was bright and alert. He was warm and inviting, like his house, but he gave off (to the trained observer) a rather negative, almost disingenuous, vibe.

"Welcome to my humble abode! I presume you are Mr. Holmes? I received your notification that you were coming earlier this morning. What may I do for you today?" he boomed jovially. For such a thin man, he had a resonating voice. He led them into his office and sat at his desk, across from them.

"We wish to speak with you about the disappearance of a certain valuable item. But, first, you must sign this document stating that the particulars of this conversation are not to be shared with anyone else," Holmes said.

"Well, alright… I suppose, if I must," he replied tentatively, signing the paper that Holmes had set before him.

"Now, what is it that has disappeared?" Lord Weaver asked.

"The Hope diamond," Holmes answered.

Lord Weaver raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That's odd. I spoke to Lord Hope just this morning and he didn't mention anything of the sort," he said.

"That is because," Watson began carefully, "he doesn't know…"

"Then who contracted you?" Lord Weaver asked.

The three looked at one another, conflicted as to whether or not they ought to tell the truth.

"Our client wishes to remain anonymous," Holmes said resolutely after a moment.

"Alright, well, I'll try to help you the best I can, but I was not even aware that anything had occurred until this moment," Lord Weaver said.

"Try to think back to the party, Lord Weaver; did anything unusual occur?" Holmes asked.

"No, not at all," he replied. Obviously, this man was not going to be a wealth of information.

All of a sudden, Clara and Watson could tell that an idea had struck Holmes; his eyes lit up brightly. "How did you and Miss Knightly sleep after the party?"

Lord Weaver was outraged. "How dare you suggest that Miss Knightly and I slept together?" he hissed quietly. His wife must have been in the house.

"I apologize, Lord Weaver, it was not my intention to upset you. But, with all due respect, I think that everyone in London knows of your involvement with Miss Knightly. However, what you do with women is none of my concern. I simply wish to solve this case," Holmes replied calmly.

Lord Weaver settled down a bit and replied, "I slept quite well after the party, and _if_ I had to guess how Miss Knightly slept – we did not sleep together, this is merely an assumption – I would say that she experienced the same deep sleep."

"And how do you usually sleep, Lord Weaver?" Holmes asked.

"I don't usually sleep well, unfortunately," he answered.

"So you experienced a deep sleep that was somewhat out of the ordinary?" he pressed.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that…" he answered hesitantly. Clara hurriedly scribbled something on her note-pad, causing Lord Weaver to send her a rather troubled glance.

"Which of the people you hired for the party are permanently under your employment?" Holmes asked.

"The maids, Miss Eliza McIntyre, Miss Mary Halstrom, and Miss Anne Stevens, the butler, Mr. Robert Taylor, and the cook, Miss Katherine Graystone," Lord Weaver replied.

"Would it be alright if we stopped by again tomorrow to interview them?" Holmes asked politely.

"I suppose so," he answered forcing himself to be hospitable.

"Well, then, thank you! We must be going, but your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Adieu, until tomorrow!" Holmes replied energetically, shaking Lord Weaver's hand.

*

"They were drugged," Holmes said simply.

"And just how did you deduce that?" Watson asked.

"Lord Weaver said that he does not usually sleep well, but, on that particular night, he just happened to have a good night's sleep? That is a very uncanny coincidence, which is why I asked if we could speak with his servants tomorrow. They must have been in on the scheme. I do not believe that Lord Weaver is guilty; he does not come across as clever enough to devise such a ploy. However, we cannot rule him out just yet. Tomorrow will be very telling," he replied, taking a drag from his pipe.

"How observant of you," Clara said sarcastically, mimicking what Holmes had said to her earlier.

"Now, now, no need to belittle my considerable deductive skills, Miss Barker," he chided.

"That was hardly difficult to figure out, you must admit," Clara insisted.

"I will concede that it was not the most intricate of tasks, yes, but still, it required a mind far more attentive than, say, Watson's," Holmes replied.

"Hey!" Watson said in outrage.

"Just testing to see whether or not you were listening, old boy. One must stay alert at all times," his friend replied. Watson was about to make a witty response, but a knocking on the door (how typical) interrupted him. Clara, who was nearest to the door, stood and opened it.

"Did you miss me?" Irene said to Holmes, completely overlooking Clara.

* * *

**A/N: Please review! Maybe it will help me with my writer's block :(**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, so I've kind of gotten my inspiration back. Hopefully this streak will continue! There will be quite the love... er... triangle? rectangle? pentagon?? to come, so get excited! It's about to get complicated...

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**Chapter IV**

As soon as Irene had gracefully seated herself a Holmes' desk chair (as if she owned the place, what nerve), Clara asked, "Holmes, may I speak with you in private for a moment?"

Puzzled, Holmes nodded and followed her into the hallway. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"I don't trust Irene," she said simply. Her tone held a vague air of stubbornness and jealousy, which Holmes noticed.

"Well, that's probably wise, but on what are you basing this conclusion?" he countered, mildly amused.

"I just get a bad feeling from her," Clara said.

"There you go with your emotions again. Irene can't be trusted on petty things; you can't trust her with your wallet, but you can with your life. She would never do anything to put our lives in peril," he explained.

Clara bit her lip, not fully convinced. Holmes took this as a sign to continue.

"You just don't like her because you think I have a romantic interest in her," he said calculatedly.

As Holmes said this, Clara furrowed her brow with disapproval, but did not say anything. Rather, she chose to cross her arms huffily over her chest – he _was_ right, after all. Sometimes, she wished he wasn't so skilled at reading people – he made her feel foolishly transparent.

"But you _do _have a romantic interest in her," she replied after a moment.

Holmes faltered. "What does it matter if I do?" he began quietly, "You don't seem to be able to comprehend what I've told you before. You don't have feelings for me – and I don't have them for you. You may think you _love _(at the mention of this word, he crinkled his nose is disgust) me, but you do not. You've always felt for Watson – since you first met him. And now, although it may take a while for him to get over Mary – but he _will_ get over her, mark my words – you have your chance with him. It may seem sick to view this as an opportunity, but that's precisely what it is. I'm horribly sorry for his loss, and it is truly a catastrophe, but everyone moves on eventually - it's part of human nature. If people never recovered from tragedies, the world as we know it would cease to exist. But, I shall conclude my little speech – we haven't the time for this; we must get back to the case."

"Wait, Holmes," Clara began, "you send me such conflicting signs. Why are you doing this to me? Sometimes you push me away, saying things like what you just spat off, and other times you're kissing me and joking with me and acting normal! Put yourself in my position! What am I to think?"

"I'm sorry," he began slowly, his face emotionless, "If my actions have misled you in anyway. I can assure you, it won't happen again."

Without looking at her, Holmes returned to his room. Clara stayed in the hallway for awhile, letting what Holmes had said sink in. She leant against the wall and slowly sunk down to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest. She couldn't believe what he'd said to her. The way he delivered his message - so cool, so stoic. She could hardly believe him to be human. Honestly, he really needed to decide how he felt about her. She couldn't take any more of this. One minute he is berating her, the next he's apologizing. After about five minutes, Watson came out and sat beside her.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she began, flashing him a smile, "I'm fine. I'm far too dramatic at times, I'm afraid."

"Well, I've just spoken with Holmes and Irene and it seems that they are planning to go out tonight. I don't think we're invited, though," he said, smirking.

"I see," Clara said shortly. After a moment, she added, "Well, we mustn't let them spoil our fun. Would you like to go out to supper?"

Watson hesitated, and Clara said, "Nothing formal, obviously. We shouldn't sit here and brood, it will only make things worse."

"I suppose you're right," he said tentatively. "Sure, why not," he finally resolved.

So, at around seven o'clock, the two couples set out from Baker Street in different directions.

As they sat down to dinner, Clara asked, "So, what is the story with Irene?"

Watson chuckled lightly, "Well, you certainly get to the point, don't you? I don't exactly know – Holmes has known Irene longer than he's known me."

"Does he talk of her often with you?" Clara asked, trying to seem as disinterested and casual as she could.

"No, not really," Watson replied, trying to recall the first instance that Holmes had mentioned Irene.

"The first time he ever mentioned her," Watson began, "was when I asked who the person in his photograph was. I'd asked who she was and he simply told me, 'Irene Adler,' and then I asked if she was still living. He replied, 'as far as I know,' and that's all we spoke of it."

When the appetizers came, Watson and Clara spoke pleasantly and freely. Clara, after having spent so much time with Holmes, had forgotten how a proper gentleman should act. After about an hour into the dinner, Clara asked, "So how are you doing with… you know…?"

Watson let out a deep sigh. "I'm alright," he muttered, "It's better when I don't think about it. Honestly, at this stage, I think it's better to simply block out the ordeal rather than face the pain. As the weeks pass it gets easier, but only if I keep my mind occupied." Clara nodded sympathetically in understanding.

"I'm sorry to have brought it up," she began, "It's just – I worry about you. I can only imagine – if it had been me…"

"It's alright, I understand your concern," he replied gently.

*

When Clara and Watson arrived back at 221B Baker Street at around ten, Holmes and Irene were nowhere to be found. Clara and Watson's dinner went well, and by the end of it they were both in good spirits despite the depressing topics they had been discussing at the commencement of the meal.

As soon as they had ascended the staircase, Clara and Watson bid each other good night and returned to their respective rooms. When Clara was safely insider her room, she began to wonder when Holmes would be back. It wasn't unlike him to stay out late, but usually either she or Watson was with him. She knew that she didn't have to worry about anything happening to him – he was _Sherlock Holmes_, after all – but still, she didn't like the idea of him being out – alone – at night – with Irene; there were far too may unpleasant (unpleasant to Clara, at least) possibilities that could occur. Holmes never came home that night.

The situation seemed obvious. Irene and Holmes should be together – emotionally, they asked nothing of each other, and were therefore perfect. Then, naturally, Clara should be with Watson (once he ceased mourning Mary's death, of course). If such was the case, then why was she having such a hard time seeing Holmes with Irene? She couldn't have both Watson and Holmes, and she had to come to terms with that. (She shouldn't even be thinking such things about Watson! She truly must be psychologically impaired. Well, it wasn't completely her fault... Holmes had been the one to put the notion in her head in the first place). Plus, Holmes didn't want her; he'd made that perfectly clear. So, then, what was the hang up?

*

_Why did I do it?_ he thought as he attempted to make himself presentable in front of the full-length mirror in the hotel room. It probably wasn't the smartest of moves. _Let's assess the variables,_ he thought. What possible motivations were there?

1. He wanted to aggravate Clara. But why? Why would he want to do that? It was fun, perhaps. But it wasn't. Then, why? He was testing her – subconsciously. He wanted to see how deep her feelings for him ran. That was a possibility.

2. He wanted to drive Watson and Clara together? No, he was done with that plan. They didn't need his help, nor was he interested in aiding them. Plus, poor Watson was just recovering from an awful loss - even _he _wouldn't thrust such schemes on him at such a vulnerable time.

3. He loved Irene. That was disconcerting – surely he did not. Right? He'd always had a… soft spot… for her. But, Sherlock Holmes did not _love_. No, that wasn't it.

4. He was lonely. That was quite possible, actually. Irene was a casual fling – she wouldn't expect anything from him afterwards, whereas Clara would. Yes, that _had _to be the reason. He'd needed some… contact… of the female sort. That was the reason – he'd most likely had too much to drink, and consequently he must have given into temptation.

And thus, Holmes decided on option number four – it was the most logical. Although he may have had super-human intellect, he was still a man. And Irene was so beautiful, and so charming, and so intelligent, and so _willing,_ and so beautiful (had he already mentioned that?). Yes, he simply couldn't resist her feminine wiles – it wasn't his fault. That was undoubtedly it.

A sudden rustle of fabric signaled Irene stirring in the bed behind him. "G'morning," she said drowsily, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

"Good morning," Holmes replied, his face twitching slightly.

"What's the matter?" she asked, seeing his somewhat troubled expression.

"Nothing – why would you think that something was the matter?" Holmes countered in a vaguely defensive tone.

"It's not about that _girl_, is it?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"What girl?" Holmes asked, playing dumb.

"_Clara," _Irene replied. She made a face as if the name left a bad taste in her mouth.

"No, of course not," he said, giving Irene a quick kiss on the forehead to appease her.

She smiled back at him and simply said, "Good."

The way she smiled at him placed but one question in his mind: he didn't love her, but did _she _love _him_? He never thought she had, he thought they had an understanding. Once such strong emotions were involved, things got messy. They both knew that - they had a strong mutual admiration - infatuation, even, but not love. Why would that change? Perhaps she was just playing mind games with him. Yes, knowing Irene, this was most likely the case.

*

At about eleven Holmes, Irene, Watson, and Clara met back at 221B Baker Street. The scene was a fairly awkward one, and both Watson and Clara tried to pretend that they hadn't noticed that Holmes wasn't there the previous night. Clara was visibly bothered, and she refused to either speak or look at Holmes, which Irene found most amusing.

"We really should get going. We have to interview Lord Weaver's employees today," Holmes said to avoid any unwelcome questions about his previous whereabouts. Everyone (minus Clara, who wouldn't even look at him) agreed with him, and they set off, once again, to Lord Weaver's house.

When they arrived, the butler greeted them. His name was Robert Taylor and he was an elderly man of around sixty-five years of age.

"I've assembled the other members of Lord Weaver's employment in the kitchen," he said smartly, leading them into the room. Sure enough, around the kitchen table, Eliza McIntyre, Mary Halstrom, Anne Stevens, and Katherine Graystone were seated.

"We ought to split up, to make this more efficient," Irene whispered to Holmes, who nodded in agreement.

"I'll interview the butler and the cook, and you can divide the maids amongst yourselves," he told his three companions.

Clara decided to interview Eliza McIntyre, a maid who appeared to be around her age, maybe slightly younger. Watson agreed (without much of a say in the matter) to interview Anne Stevens, who, in Clara's opinion, seemed altogether much too eager to answer his questions. Miss Stevens was a vivacious young girl, probably around the same age as Miss McIntyre. She would have been pretty, if not for her unfortunate figure. Irene, then, by default, had to interview Mary Halstrom, the oldest of the three maids. She seemed to act as almost a surrogate mother to the other two maids.

At the end of their interviews, back at Baker Street, Holmes asked, "So, what have we learned?"

"Miss McIntyre didn't seem to believe that anything was out of the ordinary," Clara began, looking only at Irene and Watson (but mainly Watson), "In regard to her personality, she was a sweet girl, but she didn't seem very intelligent. Although, she didn't seem overly surprised when I informed her that there was a thievery. When I asked her about the other party-goers, she specifically singled out William Tress. She said we didn't have to worry about him, but she couldn't vouch for the others."

"That's odd," Watson started, "Because Miss Stevens seemed to believe the opposite. She, too, singled out Mr. Tress, but she said that she didn't find him trustworthy."

"And why did she believe that?" Holmes asked.

"She couldn't tell me exactly. She just said that he gave her a negative vibe," he replied. Watson's words reminded Holmes of what Clara had said to him earlier.

"Well, that's certainly interesting. Clearly we must find this William Tress. Irene, did Miss Halstrom mention anything of interest?"

"Actually, she did. She said that the Indian performers appeared to be quite taken by the necklace. She couldn't understand what they were saying, but she said that she once saw one of the daughters point to the diamond – she didn't know which daughter, though," Irene answered.

"Did she say anything about Mr. Tress?" Holmes asked. She shook her head in an indication that she had not.

"Alright, then," Holmes concluded, "Next, we must locate and interview William Tress. After we've spoken with him, we must find the performers. This will be difficult, and it will require a good deal of effort on your part, Irene. My findings were not noteworthy, in case you were wondering. The butler was of no use - he is half deaf and half blind. The cook was presumably defensive, saying that, 'the notion of anyone drugging _my_ food is simply preposterous. I prepare everything to perfection.' She did say that she caught one of the daughters and Mr. Gregory Blake have a rather heated discussion, which could be significant, I suppose. At some point we must also interrogate the party guests. Perhaps they will offer some valuable information."

With that, Holmes sat down, lit his pipe, and began piecing together the new data.

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**A/N: Please review! I would really love feedback on how the characters are acting! It's been like two months since Mary's death, and I'm a little confused as to how Watson should behave. Thank goodness, I've never experienced such a tragic loss, but, as a result, I don't really know exactly how to make him act. Thank you for reading :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Sorry I'm being slow with the updates, things are a little crazy right now. But things will speed up soon, I promise!

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**Chapter V**

William Tress lived at 18 Boundary Street, which was not in the nicest part of London, to put it gently. When Holmes knocked on the door, a short, stout man, presumably the landlord, answered.

"What d'ya want?" he asked gruffly.

"Please to meet you, as well," Holmes said in a tone lightly shrouded in disgust. The man blinked at him dumbly.

"We are looking for a Mr. William Tress," Holmes stated authoritatively after he received no response from the man.

" 'Old on just one minute," he said to Holmes, grinning (revealing a rather horrid assortment of yellow domino-like teeth) and sticking up his index finger.

"William! Get yer arse down 'ere. There's some people 'ere to see you!" he hollered up the stairs. After this charming display, the man turned his back to Holmes (and everyone else) and stumbled into a back room, out of sight.

"Yes, Mr. Brown," grumbled the low, pleasant voice of a young man. His voice had a powerful calming effect – it sounded almost like low church-bells on a Sunday morning. At this noise, everyone's gaze snapped to the top of the staircase. Before them was one of the most beautiful men either Clara or Irene had ever laid eyes upon. He was tall, strongly built, and had a remarkably handsome face. He had delicately chiseled features, with piercing steel-blue eyes and a healthy crop of wavy golden hair. He was clean shaven an appeared to be in his early to mid twenties.

As William descended the stairs, Watson amusedly whispered to Clara, "You may want to shut your mouth – your jaw appears to have become unhinged."

Immediately, Clara took his advice and cast him a bashfully guilty glance. She looked to her right to see that Irene, too, had been affected by the man's presence. She could see Holmes' eyes dart between the Irene and the young man in a mildly bothered fashion, which stirred within her a very uncomfortable sentiment. However, she pushed it aside.

"May I help you?" William's voice rang. However, before anyone could respond, he began to speak again. He directed his gaze towards Irene and said, "I remember you, you were at the dinner party that I assisted with."

Irene smirked devilishly. "I'm surprised you recognized me," she cooed, giving him her hand. As he put her hand to his lips, she clutched her other hand to her chest in faux-shyness. "How could I ever forget a lady so lovely, Miss Adler?" he purred. Holmes greatly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Mr. Tress held Irene's gaze for a moment, before turning to the rest of the group.

"I'm sorry, how rude of me. I am William Tress, as I am sure you are aware – otherwise you wouldn't be here, would you? May I ask who you are?" he said politely.

Holmes spoke up first. "I am Detective Sherlock Holmes. I've recently been solicited to retrieve a necklace, which was stolen the night of the dinner party that you mentioned earlier," he said professionally.

"I see," William said slowly. Then he turned to Watson and Clara. "And you are?" he asked.

"I am Dr. John Watson , a colleague of Holmes'," Watson replied courteously.

"I'm Clarissa Barker. I am also one of Holmes' colleagues," Clara answered. Immediately after introducing herself, Clara realized that she had referred to herself as "Clarissa," something that she never did. Holmes and Watson seemed to be confused as to why she'd used her full name as well, seeing as she hardly ever uttered it. She wanted to seem more sophisticated, perhaps? She couldn't really decipher her own intentions.

"Clarissa Barker," William repeated, stressing the 's's. The way he said the name was absolutely beautiful, and she was now glad that she'd used it. When he brought her hand to his lips, she could feel herself blush girlishly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Watson stiffed beside her. Holmes cleared his throat with unnecessary emphasis and Clara quickly shot him a glare.

"Right," William said, "Please forgive me. Where would you like to conduct the interview? We mustn't stay here, it's no place for proper ladies."

"Well, then, is there a café or something nearby that we may go to instead?" Holmes asked, eager to expedite the situation.

"Yes, there is," he replied, "just a moment." He went upstairs quickly, presumably to retrieve his overcoat. Leading them out the door, they began to walk down the road.

The scenery was dismal, and Clara was reminded of when she, Holmes, and Watson first visited Whitechapel together. Though the memory itself was unpleasant, the state of mind she was in at the time was not. Things had been simpler – there had been no tragedies, no depression, no gloom, and no complex relationships. Everything had changed. She remembered how Holmes had tried so desperately to prevent such changes, and now she could relate to his manner of thinking. In his mind, preventing change meant preventing Watson from marrying Mary. Well, Watson _had_ married Mary, but, in retrospect, it was his current state of _not _being married to Mary that was causing the most heartache.

And her relationship with Holmes had been different, as well. After Watson's marriage, it took on an entirely different nature. Perhaps it would have been better if there hadn't been any romance between them at all. Ah well, that ship had sailed. Holmes had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her, maybe now things could go back (at least somewhat) to their original state.

Suddenly, everyone stopped short, causing Clara to nearly topple Watson, who had been walking in front of her. Watson turned around and cocked an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sorry," Clara began breathlessly, "my mind must have wandered."

"Here we are," William announced to his small party of followers. He led them inside a dingy looking tavern called "The White Horse." The group of five sat down at a small table in the back, where they could not be heard.

"My first and foremost question is," Holmes began, taking great pains to make himself comfortable (after a bit of fidgeting, he had an arm slung over the back of Irene's chair and his legs were crossed), "How did you come to be hired by Lord Weaver?"

"The cook, Kat Graystone, is my aunt. I told her I could use the money, and she offered my services to the lord," he stated simply, shrugging slightly.

Clara quickly looked at Watson, who, in contrast to Holmes, was sitting stiffly in his chair with both hands atop his walking stick. She caught his eye and there was a silent agreement on the fact that Katherine Graystone hadn't mentioned William was her nephew was strange.

"Well, I'm just going to get straight to the point," Holmes began bluntly; he was frustrated with their lack of information. "Did anyone ask you to slip anything into the drinks or food that night?"

William blinked twice, slightly shocked. "Why, no, of course not. And, even if they had, I never would do such a thing! What would make you ask such a question?" he said defensively.

"We have reason to suspect that the party guests may have been drugged," he replied nonchalantly, trying to get a speck of dirt out from under his nail.

"I would never do such a thing…" William repeated.

"Two of the maids singled you out. Do you have any idea why that might be?" Holmes asked, suddenly more energetic.

"Which maids?" William countered hesitantly.

"Miss McIntyre and Miss Stevens," Holmes replied.

William bit his lip and winced slightly. "Oh," he started, "Well – um – that might be because – well, you see – "

"Spit it out," Irene interjected impatiently, earning a few surprised looks. It seemed she had another side to her, after all.

William's face turned slightly red, but he seemed to have composed his manner of speaking. "That might be because," he repeated, "Miss Stevens always fancied me, you see. I'd been to the Weaver residence before, to see my aunt. And, at the party, I think she may have seen me give Miss McIntyre a small kiss – on the cheek! Nothing inappropriate, but still, I think it may have hurt her feelings."

Holmes raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly, but did not say anything. Clara recalled Miss McIntyre's dreamy expression when she spoke of Mr. Tress, and she could find the situation plausible. Miss Stevens, from the brief encounter she had had with her, seemed to Clara to be the type of girl who might make up a story to get revenge. A woman scorned, as it were. Watson and Irene seemed skeptical, but they, too, seemed to believe that Mr. Tress's story was at least in the realm of possibility.

"We were also informed that one of the female Indian performers was seen having a somewhat intense conversation with Mr. Blake. Another of the performers was seen pointing to Miss Adler's necklace – the one that was stolen. Do you know anything of either of these events?" Holmes asked.

"Which of the sisters? Antara, Devyani, or Mala?" William asked.

Clara, who was vaguely surprised that he knew their names, interjected, "They didn't know, but how is it that you knew they were sisters? And what their names were?"

"They introduced themselves at the beginning of the performance," he began smoothly, "Apparently I was the only one paying attention."

"Alright, well I would say that concludes our interview," Holmes said, "Is there anything else that may be of use to us?"

William looked over both his shoulders in a suspicious manner before whispering, "If I were you, I would take a good look at Mr. Blake. He's a lawyer, but he spends almost all his money on trivial _pleasures_, if you catch my drift. He's not as wealthy as he likes to let on. Perhaps he needed money?"

Clara scribbled something down on her trusty notepad. "Thank you," Holmes said standing up and shaking William's hand. Watson shook hands with him as well, and William kissed Irene's hand, as before. As he did the same to Clara's hand, he slipped a piece of paper into her palm. Clara was quite surprised, and she looked at Holmes, Watson, and Irene to gauge whether or not they had seen – she surmised that they hadn't.

*

Once safely back inside her room at 221B Baker Street, Clara unraveled the parcel. It read:

_Meet me back at the White Horse at six o'clock. I don't know exactly why, but I should like to see you again. I didn't want to ask you in person – I feared that you male friends might not be too keen on my proposal. I understand that this is a very peculiar request, but please, humour me. I would only like but ten minutes of your time._

Clara was thoroughly confused. William Tress was a physically exquisite specimen – why on earth would he want to see her? Especially in comparison to Irene, who was far superior in terms of beauty. It didn't make any sense. However, with that in mind, Clara had to admit that she wanted to go, just out of sheer curiosity.

At five thirty, she quietly attempted to sneak out of her room. Holmes, who had his door wide open, saw her walking past and said, "Going to see our dear Casanova, I see."

Watson, who was also in the room, put down his paper and looked at her curiously, awaiting her response.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you liked it! PLEASE review! The plot I have planned out it pretty complicated, and it's more intellectual than adventurous. I thought it would be nice to have a little change from my last story, which was pretty much just adventure. Please tell me what you think about this, because if it's not a popular idea I can always change it. Thank you for reading!  
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**UPDATE: Hey everyone, I just added a poll to my profile - it asks who you think Clara should end up with. I really try to base what I write on what the reviewers would like to see, so I thought a poll might be useful for people to give their opinions. Please check it out :)  
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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! This one's a lot longer than usual, so I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter VI**

"How do you know that's where I'm going?" Clara asked defiantly, sticking her chin out. Her plan to leave unnoticed had failed miserably.

"Did you honestly think that I wouldn't see him slip you that piece of paper? Tsk tsk, Clara, you ought to know me better than that," Holmes replied. He was leaning lazily in his doorway like some sort of predatory cat.

"But you have no idea what that paper said," she reasoned, putting her hands on her hips.

"Well, seeing as you are going out this evening, dressed up and alone – which you never do – I think it's safe to assume – "

"Alright, I see your point," Clara interjected, wincing in response to how easily he unraveled her plan. "What does it matter, anyway," she said saucily, hoping to get a rise from him.

However, she was disappointed. "It doesn't," he began calmly, sticking his pipe in his mouth, "I was merely making an observation."

Watson, on the other hand, stood and neatly folded his newspaper, setting it on the coffee table. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said, looking at Holmes for support, "It'll be getting dark soon and she shouldn't be in that part of town by herself, let alone at night."

"Oh please, John, I can take care of myself," she said petulantly.

Holmes raised an eyebrow mockingly. "Can you, now? If I remember correctly, we've saved you from numerous dangerous situations in the past. One specific event stands out in my mind especially – oh what was it? – Oh, yes, that time when you were _drugged to the point of unconsciousness, lying beneath a giant spike that was teetering above your heart._ Other than that, I would say you are completely self-sufficient," he said sarcastically.

Clara felt her cheeks grow scarlet with a combination of anger and embarrassment.

"And I have no desire to carry your limp body down nearly seven flights of stairs again, thank you," Watson piped in.

"Well, I'm going, whether you like it or not," she said resolvedly, standing firmly at the top of the stairs.

"Fine, it's no tax on me, I was planning on going out with Irene tonight anyway," Holmes replied with the smallest tinge of cruelty.

Clara blinked twice, surprised at his response. She'd never envisioned him as the type of person to say such a thing. Even Watson seemed surprised – Holmes usually wouldn't offer such information about his personal life, especially if it involved Irene.

"Fine," Clara snapped lamely, descending the staircase.

*

"What was that?" Watson asked his friend confusedly.

"Nothing," Holmes answered, massaging his temples. "It was nothing. That girl can really be insufferable at times, can't she?"

Watson crinkled his nose in bewilderment. "Not really, Holmes. I mean, she didn't really say anything to you – you initiated that little spat," he said.

"Did I?" Holmes said distantly, watching Clara walk down the street beneath his window.

"You're acting very odd – even for you…" Watson said skeptically, knitting his brow.

Suddenly, Holmes ran to his door and grabbed his overcoat and hat from the cloak-rack.

"Where are you going?" Watson questioned.

"You said it yourself, my dear Watson – we can't let her go alone! Plus, I may retrieve some information that is pertinent to the case," he said, grinning slyly.

"You're going to follow her?" Watson said, un-amusedly eying Holmes' coat.

"Superb judgment, my good fellow," Holmes said sarcastically. "Are you not coming?" he added after Watson made no move to follow him.

"Oh no, Holmes. This is your problem. I don't want to be there to see her fury when she catches you," his friend replied.

"You mean _if_ she catches me. You know that I am a master of stealth," Holmes reasoned.

Watson rolled his eyes and looked back down at his newspaper. "That may be, but I don't want to risk it. You're on your own this time, old boy," he said. When he looked up again, Holmes was gone.

"Wait!" he called out, rushing down the stairs and catching him as he was about to leave the house. Holmes turned and looked at him questioningly. "Aren't you supposed to meet up with Irene?" Watson asked.

Holmes grinned. "If she stops by," he began, "tell her I'm out boxing."

*

As Clara walked to Boundary Street, she had the distinctive feeling that she was being followed. _I should have taken a cab_, she thought ruefully – it _was_ quite a long walk from Baker Street, but she liked the exercise. She looked over her shoulder for the third or fourth time – there was nothing, same as before. Just a large group of people; nothing unusual for the time of day. _I'm just paranoid. Holmes has had too much of an effect on me,_ she mused. As she managed to dodge a rather filthy looking puddle in the nick of time, she wondered why she had chosen to go meet Mr. Tress. She had a very difficult time not succumbing to her curiosity. And it didn't hurt that he was absolutely gorgeous.

And Holmes hadn't seemed too happy about her decision to meet him, either. She smiled smugly to herself. _Good_, she thought, _serves him right for trying to make me jealous of Irene_. Even if she didn't come to particularly like William, he might be good leverage to have in the future. Although, she did feel slightly bad about it – she didn't want to make Watson worry. Sure, there was nothing romantic between them (at the moment), but he still cared about her and she didn't want to take advantage of that. It was difficult to keep in mind that she couldn't allow herself to harbor any romantic feelings for either of the men; if she renewed her feelings for Watson, she would put him through an awful emotional turmoil, and Holmes didn't want anything to do with her. And that was where she was at – which was partly, almost subconsciously, why she was going to see William Tress. What did she have to lose?

*

He didn't know exactly why he'd chosen to follow her – not knowing his own motives was something he found himself doing quite often, lately. He told himself it was because he might find some evidence for the case that Clara would miss – some small detail that she would overlook. That was partially it. But he was blowing off Irene for this – why? Perhaps they were getting too close – too attached to one another. He had to distance himself. He couldn't allow himself to fall in love. Though, he didn't think that was entirely possible. Due to his keen ability to spot small peculiarities, he would always see people's faults, which made it difficult to find a suitable mate.

But why follow Clara? Why not? He enjoyed tracking people – it was a thrill. And (God forbid) in case she got into trouble, he would be there – her invisible guardian. Despite what he told himself, he did care for her, in a friendly sort of way. If she were to be hurt, he would be upset. And that William Tress, goodness knows what type of person he was. There was something about that – that _boy_ that he didn't trust. He was too suave, too handsome. Nothing good could come from him. If he showed signs of being dangerous, Clara would miss them. She was too taken by his good looks to have the ability to accurately assess his character. Maybe he wasn't giving her enough credit – she was quite intelligent – but he didn't want to take the risk. Speaking of risks, he was disappointed that Watson hadn't chosen to come with him. If Clara did, indeed, spot him (which was unlikely, but one must plan for the worst), she would be much more apt to calm down if Watson was there. She liked Watson far more than she liked Holmes, at the moment.

*

When Clara walked into the White Horse Tavern, she saw William sitting at a small table in the back of the room. He waved to her and got up to greet her.

"Miss Clarissa! I'm so pleased that you decided to come!" he said enthusiastically, kissing the back of her hand.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid I let my curiosity get the best of me," she said, smiling and looking at him through her eyelashes. He smiled at her devilishly and pulled her chair out for her in a gentlemanly fashion. For someone of working class, he certainly had nice manners.

He sat down across from her and said, "I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you to meet me here, and, to tell you the truth, I myself am wondering the same thing. When I first saw you, I just had this overwhelming sense that I needed to know you. It's difficult for me to explain." He was looking at her intently, waiting for her response.

"I must say, that's quite peculiar. But I believe strongly in the concept of 'fate' – you may laugh – but perhaps we were meant to meet one another. If you feel such a strange draw to me, we should at least get to know each other, I suppose," she said hesitantly.

"No, no, why would I laugh? I, too, believe in fate! It seems we have something in common already," he began smiling, "but how should we begin this conversation? Where were you born? Are you from London?"

"No, I'm not from London. I was born in a small town about a day's distance away. Where are you from?" she asked politely.

"Born and raised in the city," he said proudly, "What brought you to London?"

She let out a bitter laugh and looked at her hands, "My parents sent me here. I guess I was too much of a burden."

"I'm sorry," he said sympathetically, "That must have been difficult for you."

"It's quite alright," she started, meeting his gaze; "I like it much better here, anyway. I'm glad they sent me away."

He smiled kindly at her, his blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. "So who are those two men you were with earlier today. I know they were detectives, but just how exactly did you get mixed up with the two of them?"

She bit her lip, unsure whether it was a good idea to tell him or not. It wasn't exactly confidential information, so she decided to divulge. "My aunt is their landlady, and when I moved in with her I met them. They live next-door to me," she said.

"So you're quite close with them?" he asked.

"I suppose you could say that," Clara replied.

"So, what, they're like brothers to you?" he asked nonchalantly. Clara smiled – she could tell that he was trying to see whether or not she had a romantic relationship with either of them.

"Not exactly. It's very complicated," she said slowly.

"I would love to hear. I simply adore gossip," he said jokingly, leaning closer and folding his hands on the table to hear her story.

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you…" she said. "Hmm where should I start? When I first met them, John – Dr. Watson – was engaged to a woman named Mary and Holmes was a bachelor. At first, I had somewhat of a crush on John – don't judge me, I couldn't help it. It was wrong, I know, he was betrothed, but I truly liked him. He was polite, so kind, simply the opposite of his companion. But, alas, John was married and I wouldn't have ever dreamt of breaking apart their marriage – that's where I draw the line. That's when I realized that I had feelings for Holmes. We were both rather distraught over John's departure from our lives and I guess that's what brought us together – we didn't have anyone else. But Holmes is not a normal man. He doesn't have feelings for anyone, or, if he does, he won't admit it – not even to himself. So that didn't work out, obviously. And then John's wife died, poor dear, and he moved back in with Holmes. Then, Irene Adler came into the picture, and, as I'm sure you noticed, she and Holmes have a bit of a past."

"So are they together now?" he asked.

"I don't exactly know. I don't think so, but they do seem to care about one another a good deal," she replied.

"And where do you stand with John and Holmes now?" he inquired.

"Honestly, I can't even fathom any sort of romantic relationship with either of them," she answered. He nodded silently in understanding.

"What about you? Any ladies in your life?" she asked teasingly. They'd only known each other for a short time, but she felt unexpectedly comfortable around him.

"No, unfortunately," he answered, grinning.

"Really? What about those maids?" she questioned lightly.

He laughed shortly. "I feel rather bad about that, but they're not really my type," he replied.

"I see," Clara commented. "Well, I really should be going. It's been over an hour…" she said.

"Of course," William said, standing up, "the time flew by, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did," she replied.

"Will I see you again?" he asked hopefully.

"Well, I suppose, if you would like to. And if you learn anything about the case, please let me know. We haven't a large amount of information, at the moment," she said.

"Very well, I should readily help you with the case if it means seeing you again," he said smoothly, brushing his lips to her hand. Clara blushed. He walked her to the street corner, until they had to part paths. "Until we meet again," he said, bowing.

When William had turned his back to her, Clara grinned to herself girlishly and tried to settle the butterflies rising in her stomach. It was dark outside, but her face felt warm, as if from sunlight. She began her walk back to Baker Street, barely able to restrain herself from skipping. However, this bliss was short-lived.

About halfway back, Clara was pulled into a dark alleyway and shoved against the wall roughly. She let out a grunt, before a gloved hand shoved itself over her mouth. She panicked and kneed the man in the groin, before trying to run away. She let out a small squeak-like scream before being pulled back into the alleyway by her wrist. The man pressed her up against the wall once again, only this time he had procured a knife.

"Stay away from William Tress. He's not a suspect in your little case. You needn't worry about him. Stop digging around where you're not wanted," a low voice growled warningly. Whoever the person was, he was trying to disguise his voice.

Clara nodded vigorously. "I don't want any trouble…" she mumbled into the glove, "if you could just let me go…"

"I don't think you get the message," the man said menacingly, tilting the blade in his hand, "Maybe I need to make things a little clearer – give you a little reminder, so to speak."

"No, you really don't," Clara said, trying to reason with the man. She could tell by the quality of his gloves that he wasn't some homeless lunatic.

Holmes was watching the scene from a fire escape above. He didn't want to step in unless it was absolutely necessary, because stepping in would betray his presence. However, it looked as if it was getting to that point. He let out a sigh before dropping down from his hiding spot. He snuck up behind the man, and grabbed the wrist of the hand that he was holding the knife in.

"You're not being very nice," he scolded. Holmes managed to get the knife out of the attacker's hand before he growled and jerked himself free. Inadvertently, Holmes sliced the man's arm from his shoulder to his elbow in the struggle. However, the man was able to get away. Holmes didn't chase him; instead, he looked at Clara, who was staring at him with mixed emotions. On one hand, she was glad that he saved her (once again), but on the other, she was furious at him for apparently having followed her.

"What, no thank-you?" he asked, opening his arms.

She opened her mouth and nearly gaped at him in disbelief. "Do you not see anything wrong with this scenario?!" she asked.

"On the contrary, I see several things wrong with it – the primary being the fact that you were just assaulted. Though, I expected something like this might happen, which is why I chose to follow you," he said calmly.

"You've gotten to the point where you don't even know the difference between right and wrong," she began, placing her fingers to her temples, "You see nothing immoral in following me without my knowledge or consent? It is a gross betrayal of privacy."

"I don't see it that way, you should be glad that I followed you. If I hadn't, you would be in a rather sticky situation right now," he said logically.

"You're missing the point!" Clara whispered angrily.

Suddenly, an elderly man peered to look down the alleyway. Holmes and Clara had since moved closer to the street, and their faces were visible.

"Is everything alright?" the man asked, narrowing his eyes at Holmes. The fact that this sweet old man thought he could take on Holmes was enough to lift Clara's spirits slightly, and she said, "Yes, sir, everything is fine."

"Oh," the man said simply, taking in Clara's state. Her hair was messy and her breathing was slightly irregular from her previous encounter. "I see," he said distastefully. Holmes tried to stifle a laugh because, when the man walked away, Clara didn't seem to have any idea why he had treated them rudely. Holmes decided it was time to go home, and he grabbed Clara's upper arm and nearly dragged her along.

"I _loathe_ you," she spat at him.

"Oh please, no you don't. How could you loathe your savior?" he said cheerfully.

"_Savior_ – that's a load of bollocks, if I ever heard one," she replied.

"That's no way for a lady to speak," he said, pretending to be flabbergasted.

"You don't think anything's changed between us, do you?" Clara asked.

"Nothing _has_ changed between us," he replied stoically, his joking tone wearing off.

"But it has. Things haven't gone back to normal since– since that _night_. Even if we wanted them to, they haven't," she said.

Holmes glanced at her and bit his lip – he might as well tell her… it'd been long enough…

"That night wasn't exactly what you think," he said vaguely.

"What do you mean?" Clara asked, narrowing her eyes. She didn't like the sound of that.

"Well – er – you see, I knew that Watson would stop by that morning to say goodbye. I thought that if maybe he saw something like what he did he might reconsider things. It wasn't a very good idea, I realize, but I came up with it at about three o'clock that morning, half-drunk," he said.

"You tricked me," Clara said, in a state of shock. "All that time – you let me believe – how could you? You never felt anything for me at all – you were just _toying_ with me! It was a game for you! That's horrible – that's inhumane – you're not _human_! Don't I have any meaning to you at all? Or am I little more than a paper doll for you? Hm? I don't want to know. Don't answer. Let me go."

Holmes released her, feeling rather guilty. But, he was glad to have gotten that off of his chest – at least now she knew the truth. She wouldn't have to keep thinking that there was something between them – there wasn't – nothing real, anyway. She jogged ahead of him a short ways, clearly trying to stop herself from becoming emotional. When she reached Baker Street, he saw her rush into the house and slam the door behind her with great force. He winced – this wasn't going to end well. He couldn't believe he'd passed up meeting Irene for _this_. At least he'd saved her – his time hadn't been completely wasted. He stood at the doorstep and took a deep breath – he really was in for it.

* * *

**A/N: So, chapter 6! What did you think? It may seem like I'm not really progressing the case, but I swear I am! You have to pay attention to the little things** - **I'm dropping little clues here and there. Things will become clearer in the coming chapters. I know it seems kind of just like a mess of suspects and information, but everything (well, almost everything) is related. Also, the tone of this chapter was a little lighter than that of the previous ones (until the end). Do you all prefer a lighter or darker tone?  
**

**On another note, I'm so glad people have taken my poll! It's really helpful, and I'm afraid Mr. Watson is winning (by a lot) at the moment, which really surprised me. I thought Holmes would dominate. You guys are killing me! I originally start out with Watson/Clara and then I make it more Holmes/Clara because that's what you wanted, now you change your minds! Ah, well. Personally, I'm rooting for Holmes - I don't really know why, but they sort of just write themselves together. It definitely makes the most sense for Clara and Watson to be together (and have Holmes be with Irene), but the right thing doesn't necessarily have to always be the thing that makes the most sense. That's my opinion, anyway. Please review!!! :)  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I love my reviewers so much, you guys are my inspiration :). I know I said I would be posting more quickly, but technically this is only a day earlier than usual. However, it's almost twice as long as some of the other chapters, and it's the longest one yet, which I hope you'll enjoy!

* * *

**

**Chapter VII**

Clara was absolutely livid, and as soon as she got into the house she ran upstairs. Watson heard the commotion and went to see what was going on. He walked to the top of the stairs, and Clara threw herself onto him as soon as she saw him. She was in need of human comfort – she needed to know that someone – anyone – cared about her. She buried her face into his chest and tried to choke back her tears – he put his arms around her soothingly.

"Shh, shh. What's the matter?" he asked. He was expecting her to come back angry, not sad.

Holmes walked into the house and shut the door behind him quietly. He looked up at Watson and Clara at the top of the stairs guiltily. He felt bad, he would admit it, but it had to be done. He had to tell her, he couldn't let her go on thinking there was something between them. It was better this way. She would be with Watson. That was how it was supposed to be.

Clara heard him close the door and turned away from Watson. "You want to know what the matter is?" she began, pointing to Holmes, "that – that poor excuse for a man – he's the matter.

"Holmes, what've you done _now_?" Watson asked angrily.

"I can explain –" Holmes began.

"I'd love it if you would," his friend interjected, sending Clara off to her room. Holmes made his way up to his room and Watson followed him.

"I'm waiting," Watson said, crossing his arms and closing the door behind him.

"Do you remember that day you came to visit before you left to go to Italy?" Holmes started, "You caught Clara and me in a rather… compromising… position?"

Watson averted his gaze – Holmes could have sworn he said him blush. "I remember," he said.

"Well, circumstances weren't exactly as they... appeared," he said ambiguously.

Watson raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue.

"I knew you would come to bid me goodbye and I thought that if – if maybe you saw Clara and I together – I don't really know what I was thinking, I wasn't in the right state of mind – but nothing actually happened between the two of us," Holmes said.

"You were trying to make me jealous. Of course you were. And what on _earth _made you think it would be a good idea to tell Clara this?" Watson asked. Usually he wasn't one for keeping secrets, but in this particular case it seemed as if it would be best to allow Clara to draw her own conclusions.

Holmes sighed. "Ever since then, she's been acting differently around me. I merely wanted things to go back to the way they were," he said.

Watson shook his head disapprovingly at his friend. "What you did was cruel," he started, "You really hurt her feelings – she truly cares about you, Holmes."

"That's precisely why I did it. I don't want her to care about me, not the way she did, anyway," he insisted.

His friend sighed and rubbed his eyes exasperatedly. "You shouldn't run from things, Holmes; you just end up ruining everything. You can't treat her like this and expect things to back to the way they were – it just doesn't work that way. You're going to go from her caring for you to her detesting you, is that really what you want? Change is inevitable, you must accept it – her feelings for you have changed, berating her isn't going to make them go back to what they were before. Hopefully, what you've done hasn't permanently sabotaged your relationship; I'm going to try to calm her down and see," he said.

He looked Holmes in the eyes and saw a flash of something like regret and pain. He wanted to be mad at Holmes, he really did, but he knew him well enough to know that he couldn't really help what he said or did sometimes. His brain often overtook the part of him that would decide what was and wasn't socially acceptable – it was just part of who he was; it was part of his genius. Logic always won out when it came to decision making. Watson knew this and had come to accept it; luckily, he had pretty thick skin and didn't let Holmes' behavior bother him. At first, he'd tried to teach him, tried to change him, but to no avail – Holmes was much more stubborn than he was, so, he just learned to live with it. It was a trait that men could weather, but women often couldn't, which was why Holmes rarely had relationships with females. Watson went towards the door and Holmes picked up his violin.

"Clara?" he said, softly knocking on the door. He heard a sniff and the door opened slightly. Clara's eyes were faintly red from crying, which made her blue irises stand out due to the contrast.

"Oh, John," she mumbled sadly, letting him in.

"Clara, it's alright. You know Holmes, a lot of the time he doesn't mean to upset people with what he says. He feels bad, he really does, he just wanted you to know the truth," Watson said, sitting next to her on the edge of her bed and rubbing her back. "He does care about you," he added, "even if he won't admit it."

Clara shook her head frantically. "He doesn't, no, he doesn't. I've thought about this quite often and I've gone round and round in my head – he doesn't. Before, I convinced myself that he did, because I _wanted_ him to. I'm not going to let that happen again. I don't know what I was thinking – he doesn't care about _anyone_, save you, and he certainly would never care for me in the way I wanted him to. You're the only one, John; the only one who cares about me. My own parents don't even care about me, I'm just a financial burden to them," she said.

"Clara, please, you're being silly. Of course other people care about you – your aunt, your brothers, they all care for you deeply," he reasoned, "So what if Holmes is an ass, you can't let it get to you."

Clara chuckled slightly through her tears at Watson's last statement. "I suppose you're right. I am being a bit silly, aren't I? Who needs stupid Holmes, anyway? Oh, thank you, John, you really know how to make me feel better. What would I do without you?"

She sniffed and hugged him – he rested his chin on the top of her head, and a sharp pang of guilt surged through him. _Mary_, was all he could think. What was he doing? His wife and child had died hardly three months ago! What was wrong with him? He was a horrible person – quickly, he shot away from her. Clara looked at him confusedly, her light eyes swimming with fresh tears. However, suddenly, she seemed to understand and her gaze turned from one of confusion to one of regret.

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry – I'm so selfish. How could I have forgotten? I would never want to put you in a position where you were uncomfortable…" she said.

"It's alright," he replied; he had a pained expression on his face.

"If you ever want to talk about anything…" Clara offered.

He let out a deep sigh. "There really is nothing to say about it," he said.

"Well, just know that I'm here," she said awkwardly.

"I was attacked today on the way home, by the way," she added after a few minutes of silence, trying to change the subject.

Watson knitted his brow in confusion and disbelief. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Yes, I wasn't hurt, obviously, but a strange man pulled me into an alleyway and warned me to stay away from William Tress. It was very peculiar," she said with surprising casualness.

"And neither you nor Holmes deemed this important enough to tell me until now?" he exclaimed.

"It must have slipped my mind. I was a little… preoccupied… before," she said, her voice becoming slightly bitter at the mention of Holmes.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he questioned worriedly, looking her up and down like a true doctor.

"I'm sure," she said resolutely, gently pulling her arm out of his grasp.

"Wait, so what did he look like? What did he say to you?" Watson asked.

"I couldn't see his face, but I think he was wealthy, by the way he was dressed. He told me to stay away from William Tress and that he wasn't relevant to the case or something like that. I specifically remember him saying, 'stop digging where you're not wanted,'" she answered.

"That's very interesting…" he said, deep in thought. "That's odd, because you'd think he'd know that that would only draw your attention to the matter."

"I know – that's exactly what I was thinking! But then I wondered whether or not he was clever enough to think of such a scheme. Perhaps that would be giving him too much credit? You'd be surprised at how thick some people can be…" Clara said.

"True," Watson said, "but you said he seemed wealthy, correct? Therefore, he was presumably well educated, et cetera…"

"Well, whatever the case, we're going to have to look into Mr. Tress more closely, now. It doesn't really matter _what _he said, it just matters that he's said anything," she replied.

"I'm going to go talk to my flatmate about it; I'll be back," Watson said, careful not to mention Holmes' name.

*

"She was attacked?" Watson said, alerting Holmes to his presence.

Holmes, who had been playing the violin while looking out the window, turned to his friend and said, "Ah, so she's told you."

"Yes, she told me – about fifteen minutes into our conversation. Why is it that neither of you thought it was important enough to mention as anything other than a passing side-note?" he said exasperatedly.

"Must've slipped my mind," Holmes said distractedly.

Watson rolled his eyes – nothing ever slipped Holmes' mind. "That's exactly what _she _said," he replied, "She also said that the man appeared to be wealthy and that he told her to stay away from William Tress."

"That sounds about right," his friend replied.

"Anything else?" Watson pressed.

Holmes seemed to ignore his question. "You know, what I find particularly interesting is that he didn't say 'stay away from the case,' as you might expect, but he said, 'stay away from William Tress.' There's a difference. I have a feeling that this incident isn't related to the case at all – it may be something entirely separate," he said.

"Having to do with what, exactly?" Watson asked.

"I can't say, just yet. We only know that it involves William Tress," he answered.

"Any idea about who the assailant was?"

"The man was wealthy… and he recognized Clara, which means we know him."

"Why would he attack her in particular?"

"Well, she's a woman – she makes for a considerably less difficult target," Holmes reasoned.

"Why not Irene?" Watson continued.

Holmes' eyes lit up. "Because," he began slowly, "he also knows Irene – and not only that, but he knows her well enough to know that she isn't an easy target."

"So, you think it's someone from Irene's circle?"

"Possibly," Holmes answered. "I think it's time we call it a night," he began, after a while, "I know I've had quite enough excitement – Irene will be coming over tomorrow morning and we will try to track down the performers."

"What about the attacker?"

"We'll deal with that after we talk to the performers," he replied.

"You should apologize to Clara," Watson said solemnly after a minute.

"Sure, why not, that's all I seem to be doing lately – apologizing to Clara, that is," he said venomously.

"It's more serious this time, Holmes. You've really betrayed her trust, this time – she won't get over it easily, if at all," Watson said; trying to make Holmes understand the severity of the situation was proving to be a difficult task.

Holmes looked up at the ceiling and hooked his arms behind his head. "Fine," he groaned, his gaze snapping straight ahead of him, "I'll get to it eventually. Did Irene stop by?"

Watson shook his head sadly at his friend's willingness to brush off the circumstances, but replied, "Yes, in fact, she did. I told her you were out boxing, like you asked me to."

"Did she seem to believe it?" Holmes asked.

"No, she just smiled in that way she does – I think she'd already looked for you at the ring," he answered.

Holmes grinned, glad that Irene hadn't been easily duped, but didn't say anything.

*

After an astounding amount of persuasion, Watson was able to convince Clara to come into Holmes' and his room to meet with the rest of the group. When she entered the room, Irene hadn't arrived yet. The trio waited around quietly until she got there, never once making eye contact with one another. Clara was so upset and disappointed in Holmes that she couldn't even muster the will to fight him. She simply sat there in a despairing silence. When Irene did arrive, she daintily took her gloves and jacket off and greeted Watson and Clara from across the room. She was much too clever to be unaware of the obvious issue amongst the group, but she chose to ignore it.

"Good day," she called to them cheerfully. She then glided up behind Holmes and whispered seductively into his ear, "Hello, Sherlock. How was boxing?"

He turned around and smirked crookedly at her. "It was lovely, as always," he said.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that. And fortunately you don't look too bloodied," she said, returning his smirk. They held each other's gaze for a few moments, before Watson cleared his throat, snapping them back to reality.

"Ah yes, so – uh –have you found our performers?" Holmes asked rather gruffly.

"Yes," Irene began sweetly, "you should be thanking me – it was very difficult." She looked at Holmes with a flirtatiously pouty expression and he returned her gaze, his face unreadable.

"Thank you, truly, thank you," Clara interjected hastily – there was only so much she could take – the chemistry between Irene and Holmes was almost tangible and their little games were getting on her nerves. "Now," she continued, "if you don't mind, can we get on with the case?"

Irene shot Clara a death-glare, but her tone was not angered in the least; she simply said, "Certainly," and flashed her a quick, insincere smile. The tension between them was so strong that it made Watson nervous – they all remembered what happened _last_ time Clara butted heads with another woman… it was not a scenario that should be repeated, to say the least.

To ease the conflict, Watson hurriedly said, "Well, then, let's get going, shall we?"

*

Holmes rapped loudly on the crooked wooden door of the Patel residence; a short, plump Indian woman answered the door.

"Good day, Madam, I'm looking for Mr. Amal Patel," he said politely.

The woman waved her hands at him in a confused manner, "No English," she said. She held up one finger to indicate that she would come back in a moment; she turned and left, only to come back to with a tall, gangly man, presumably her husband.

"May I help you," he asked through a heavy accent.

"That depends – are you Mr. Amal Patel?" Holmes asked.

"Yes," Mr. Patel began, "And who are you?"

"I am Detective Sherlock Holmes, and these are my colleagues," he said, indicating to the rest of the troupe. "May we come in? We would like to ask you a few questions," he continued.

The man looked guarded, but he stepped aside, allowing them to enter the small house (though, it could hardly be called such – it was little more than a shack). He led them to a crowded sitting room and motioned for the foursome to take a seat on a rather shabby sofa. There wasn't much room on the sofa, and the four squeezed together uncomfortably, creating quite the humorous spectacle. Holmes was not fond of the accommodations and he spread out despite the lack of space, consequently pushing Irene into Watson's shoulder; Irene looked at him apologetically and glared at Holmes.

"Now, Mr. Patel," Holmes started, "whereabouts in India are you from?"

"Northern India," he said shortly – he seemed quite wary of the detective, for some reason.

"And you are Hindu, correct?" he continued.

"Yes," Mr. Patel answered.

"Would you consider yourself devout?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, I suppose so," he answered somewhat testily. "Just what are you investigating, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

"The disappearance of a rather valuable item that was lost the night of your performance at Lord Weaver's dinner party," he answered very quickly, running the words together slightly. "Are your daughters available?" he asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"May I speak with them?" Holmes pressed.

Mr. Patel nodded and disappeared deeper into the house. "Antara, Devyani, Mala, get down here!" they heard him yell. Two grown daughters and a half-grown one then flounced into the room and stood in a perfect line. One was tall, one was short (the youngest), and one was of medium height.

"Yes, father?" one, presumably the eldest, said.

"This is Detective Sherlock Holmes and these are his companions. He wishes to ask you girls a few questions," Mr. Patel started. "Mr. Holmes, these are my daughters, Antara, Mala, and Devyani," he said, going in order height.

"Ladies," Holmes started, addressing the row of girls, "the night that you performed at Lord Weaver's gathering, a very valuable necklace was stolen. Now, I'm not in any way accusing anyone, I'm merely stating the facts, so there's no need to feel defensive." He was about to ask them about Mr. Blake, but he thought better of it – it could have been sensitive subject matter. Instead, he said, "Now, I think we ought to split you up and interview you all, if you don't mind. Clara, you speak with Miss Antara. Irene, you with Miss Mala, and Dr. Watson and I will speak with Miss Devyani."

This was the first time that Holmes had actually said the names of his "colleagues" and the girls seemed to be confused as to who would be interviewing them. However, Irene, Clara, and Watson stepped forward, indicating who they were. Watson suggested that they all conduct their interviews outside in order to achieve a more private atmosphere.

As Holmes and Watson were walking through the door, Watson whispered to his friend, "Why would you have us interview the youngest one? She's likely to have the least amount of information."

"That is correct, but I find that women are much more apt to speak freely with other women, which is exactly what we need," he replied sensibly. "Make sure to ask about Gregory Blake," he whispered hurriedly to Irene as she passed him. He knew that he didn't need to remind Clara, and he thought it would be best if he didn't speak to her for a little while anyway.

*

"Hello, Antara, I'm Clara Barker," Clara said cheerfully. Her friendliness was entirely fake (she honestly felt anything but peppy, at the moment), but she wanted to make the girl feel comfortable around her.

"Hello," the girl said animatedly. She seemed to be in her early twenties or so and was quite pretty. She was tall, like her father, and very slim. Unlike her father, however, she had an English accent as opposed to an Indian one. "You can just call me Tara," she said energetically. Despite her mild appearance, she seemed to have a rather vivacious personality.

"Alright, Tara, the first thing I would like to ask you about is Mr. Gregory Blake. What do you know about him?" Clara asked kindly.

"Well," Antara began tentatively, "he's a lawyer… hmm what else did he say? I never really talked to him much," she said innocently.

"But you _did_ talk to him," Clara pressed.

"Yes, I did," she admitted reluctantly.

"Mr. Blake is a handsome man, is he not?" Clara asked, pretending she'd met him – she was going out on a limb for this one.

Antara seemed flustered. "Well, yes, I suppose so, but, I mean, he's a married man…" she stuttered. Clara smiled – she was pretty sure she'd figured out who Mr. Blake was talking to that night. The question was, why? But women were delicate creatures – she couldn't straight out ask.

"Look Miss Clara," Antara continued after looking over both shoulders, "Mr. Blake told me that he _did_ want to steal the necklace because his date – Miss Smith – was jealous of it, but he was just joking. He told me – well, I don't know why he told me, I think he was drunk – he told me he was planning on it, but couldn't go through with it. I'm certain he was telling the truth. He said that Lord Hope was one of his good friends and that he wouldn't do that to him. "

Clara was surprised at how much information she had just divulged. "Do you have any idea of who might have taken it, then?" she asked. It was awfully suspicious that one person was already planning to steal the necklace – the likelihood of two people planning to steal the same thing on the same day was slim, but she had to give Mr. Blake the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

"I'm sorry, but I don't. I really wish I could be of more help," she replied.

*

Back at Baker Street, Holmes was in a superb mood on account of all the information they had received. Devyani, unexpectedly, seemed to be a little sneak of a girl and was uncannily adept at spying on people. She also seemed to have taken an enormous liking to a particular young doctor, much to his own dismay and Holmes' delight, making her very keen on revealing information. She'd told them two very important bits: one, Mr. Gregory Blake, esteemed lawyer, also happened to be a proficient botanist, on the side. Two, the heated conversation that Antara and Mr. Blake were having was the result of a drunken purging of emotions (a fact that Clara, too, had learned). Mala, according to Irene, was unfortunately close-lipped. When asked about Mr. Blake, she showed little recognition and was eager to end the interview as soon as possible – very suspicious behavior, especially when both her sisters were such willing participants.

The main thing that Holmes had taken from the whole ordeal was that Mr. Blake had devised the drug that caused the heavy sleep. That made the scenario even more suspicious – if Blake couldn't go through with the plan, then how did the drug end up in everyone's drinks. However, after doing a bit of research before visiting the Patel family, Holmes had discovered that the diamond had originated in India. According to legend, the diamond was stolen from the statue of the Hindu goddess Sita. If the Patels were such devout Hindus, wouldn't it be their duty to return such a spiritual artifact back to its original place? Though, this theory was still in the mere conceptual stage – there wasn't sufficient evidence to back it up – just yet, anyway. However, one thing was for certain – they needed to pay their good friend Mr. Blake a little visit.

* * *

**A/N: OK so I hope you liked this chapter! I was a little unsure of how in character everyone was, so I would LOVE some feedback on that... And Holmes is creeping up in the polls, but he's still behind Watson... Please review!!!! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Chapter 8! It's much earlier than the last one. Speaking of which, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) This one was very difficult to write for some reason, but I hope you like it!**

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**Chapter VIII**

Tensions were running high in Holmes' room at 221B Baker Street. The brilliant detective would never cease to wonder how he had ended up in such an emotionally complex and precarious situation. On one hand, he had Irene chasing after him, causing a conflict between the two women of the party. On the other, Clara was chasing after him (and he was actively pushing her away), causing another conflict – one that involved Clara, him, and even Watson, who had become somewhat of a protector for her.

Watson, the wonderfully rational-minded thinker that he was, recognized that it was imperative that Clara and Holmes have a long conversation to sort things out. So, he tried to usher Irene out of the room with an admirable subtlety. "Irene, may I speak with you in private for a moment?" he whispered to her delicately.

However, Irene wouldn't have it. "I don't see what you would need to say to me that couldn't be said in front of everyone," she said somewhat haughtily.

"Seriously, I need to talk to you," he said, gently nudging her towards the door. She didn't have much of a choice, it seemed. Watson shut the door behind them and led her downstairs, where she wouldn't be able to eavesdrop (for he knew her well enough to know that she would inevitably try).

Holmes and Clara had literally not said one word to each other since the previous day and neither knew how to begin a conversation or what to say. She was exhausted of fighting with Holmes; she didn't have it in her to argue with him anymore. He didn't want to have another fight, either, so the situation had to be navigated with care.

"There are so many problems between us," Clara started, "that I don't even know where to begin. Sometimes I think that you're so superior – intellectually, that is – to everyone else, that you think it gives you a right to use people as your pawns. I'm not going to deny that you are brilliant – a genius, even, one of the brightest men I've ever met or probably ever will meet – and I don't mean to inflate your ego – that's the _last_ thing that you need. But to use your intelligence in such a deceptive way – it shows a disrespect that is inexcusable. Maybe that's what the root of the problem is – I don't feel as though you respect me. What you did – the horrible display of trickery you showed – is only a symptom of a greater problem, I fear. I thought I knew you before, but yesterday I realized that I didn't at all. The relationship we had was no deeper than that of two people with a similar mindset; we understand one another's point of view. Two artists, for example, may not actually know anything about each other on an individual level, but since they are both artists there is an understood commonality. But you didn't know _me_, you knew my type. Does that make sense? Meeting Irene has helped me understand this. Seeing you with her makes me realize the falsity of our relationship. You know _her_ – you know her on a very personal level. Most importantly, though, you _respect_ her – more than you ever have me. And now, I don't even hold you in contempt. I _did_, just yesterday I _hated_ you – truly despised you; you wounded my emotionally like I've never been hurt before. But, now, quite frankly, I can't even muster anything other than indifference towards you."

Holmes was surprised at levelheadedness with which she had delivered her speech. He remained quiet for a moment and allowed her words to set in. She'd analyzed him much more than he'd expected her to. She had obviously given their circumstances a lot of thought, and suddenly he felt bad for not having been as attentive. But, the worst part was how broken she sounded. She used to be fiery and passionate – when she was genuinely mad at him she would scream and cry and get all riled up. Suddenly, he realized that he'd hurt her beyond that point; at that moment, guilt consumed him like a treacherous blaze. He'd ruined her, just like Watson accused him of doing that day – that fateful day. Ruined her in a much different way than Watson had implied, but ruined her nonetheless. He had sucked the spirit right out of her. And he should have seen it coming – he'd watched her transform from a bubbly, naïve girl to a wizened, cynical woman, but he didn't imagine that anything like _this_ would happen.

"Clara, I'm sorry," he began repentantly – he couldn't even bring himself to look at her, "I've done this to you – the fault is mine. You must understand, though, that I didn't mean to do it. I shouldn't have led you to believe what I did, but it was in no way an intentional affront on you – you mustn't view it as such. What happened was merely a consequence of one of my plans to get Watson to leave Mary. It was stupid, I realize. I wasn't thinking properly. But don't think that I never cared about you or that I just used you as a pawn in some greater scheme. I _did_ care about you – I still do. And, although that one night may have been a sham, all the other times we spent together weren't. I _do _respect you, despite what you may think – just as much as I respect Irene. But you shouldn't compare yourself to her, you're very different. Irene doesn't give thought to things like you do. You are extremely contemplative, which is an attribute. But, even though you are different, I care about you just the same – you mustn't forget that, Clara. I honestly do care about you; remember our last case together? I wouldn't say it was _fun_, exactly, but we certainly spent a lot of time together and I'm not able to convince myself that that meant nothing. How could it have meant nothing? Remember how freely we used to speak with one another? Our minds were in sync; we have the capacity to truly understand one another – an ability that is exceedingly rare. It would be a shame to allow such a connection to dissolve. As I've said so many times before, I only want things to go back to the way they were, except this time without any ulterior motives or mind games."

He looked at her curiously, like an inventor trying out a new machine for the first time; he'd never given a speech like that before (he had never had the need to) and he was unsure of how she would react. Tears were starting to form in her eyes. Now, this would usually unnerve Holmes, but, in this instance, the fact that she was showing any emotion at all was a reprieve. The familiar spark was even beginning to return to her gaze; it was almost as if the life was slowly seeping back into her. She hadn't forgiven him, though. Having told him what she genuinely thought had been a great catharsis, and it had made it easier for her to try to work things out with him. She would be civil to him – she would even be kind – but she could never fully trust him again. Most likely, she would forgive him at some point; however, that definitely did not mean that she would forget what happened.

"Do you love her – Irene?" she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

Holmes faltered. He didn't want to upset her further, but he didn't want to lie to her. He couldn't lie to her anymore.

"I – I don't know," he said.

She nodded in understanding. "If you had said that you loved her, I can't say I would have been happy, but it would have consoled me to know that you at least _can_ love," she said.

"Irene is the closest I'll come," he said softly. After he said it, he began to wonder whether or not it was the truth. They say that when you're in love, you will know – that it is an unmistakable feeling. Holmes, thus far in his life, was quite certain that he had never been in love. But, did that necessarily mean that he never would be? If it did, he realized, finally _truly_ realized, that his life was going to be incomplete. The realization wouldn't keep him up at night, but it would nag at him in an unrelenting sort of way – like if you're out and you remember that you've forgotten to turn the stove off.

"What about Watson?" Holmes asked her.

She smiled sadly, her eyes glistening. "What about him?" she countered.

"Don't you love him?" he asked.

"I might have, but his heart will always belong to Mary," she said, "Funny how things work out, isn't it?"

Truthfully, Holmes really found nothing funny about it, but he flashed a quick, flickering smile to appease her.

"He will get over her," he said, his voice so low she barely heard him. There was the faintest trace of disappointment in his tone.

"I really don't think he will," she said, shaking her head. She seemed to have already resigned herself to accepting this notion.

"We'll see," he said, unconvinced.

"We shouldn't talk about him like this – he went through more than even the vilest of human beings should have to endure," she said solemnly.

"You're right," he began simply, "But I mean, Clara, you must realize, widowers typically _do _remarry. I don't mean it scathingly; I'm merely stating the conventions of the time. And dear Watson is a conventional man. Do you really want to watch him with another woman?"

Clara didn't know what to say. She _didn't_ want to watch him with another woman, but she also didn't want to show romantic feelings towards him so soon after his wife's death – it was immoral.

"Honestly, Holmes, I don't know what I want. Things have changed so much; even _I_ don't know my true feelings," she said.

"Do you love him?" he asked.

"You've just asked me that…" she began.

"I'm asking you again. Imagine him with another woman, how does it make you feel? Do you love him?" he pressed.

"Y-yes," she said hesitantly. It wasn't a new development, but it felt very foreign to acknowledge it out loud.

"Then," he started, "what's the problem?"

"He has to love me back, obviously," she said exasperatedly.

"That's not what I mean," he said, shaking his head. "There's some internal problem."

She looked at him – her bright eyes locked with his dark ones and she suddenly felt a very strong connection between them. "I don't know what it is… But there is something, you're right," she said.

"Well," he began – the conversation was nearing an end, "once you clear whatever it is out of your mind, you will find contentment."

_Oh, Holmes, _she thought, _you and I both know what's troubling me. _She desperately wished to scream _"it's you!" _And they _did_ both know it; he knew it too, but he was acting as if he didn't. And she wasn't going to tell him, goodness knows that's how they got into this horrible situation in the first place. It seemed they had reached an impasse. But, it was time for their little reconciliation to end – they had a case to attend to. Maybe Holmes had a point, maybe she should just forget about him. She could be happy with Watson – she _would_ be happy with Watson. It was no use dwelling on Holmes. Their relationship would always be strictly platonic. They couldn't be together – he didn't want to be with her, he wanted to be with Irene. And Irene wanted to be with him.

It was settled. Clara sat up straight and folded her hands on her lap resolutely. At this motion, Holmes' eyes flashed wildly and he ran a hand through his hair.

"What? What is it?" she asked worriedly.

"I know it – I know who attacked you!" he exclaimed.

"What – how?" she questioned.

"Your hands – the way you fold them. You put your right thumb atop your left, no? That's an odd way to do it – it's the recessive gene," he explained. Clara didn't see where he was going with this (or how he actually knew this information), but, knowing Holmes, she knew he would get to the point eventually. "You know who _else_ does that? William Tress and Katherine Graystone."

"Well, yes, Holmes, they _are_ related," she reasoned.

"Yes, yes they are," he confirmed, "But, what if they're not aunt and nephew, but mother and son?"

"Why would you say that? Why would they lie about their relationship?" she asked.

"Because, Clara, don't you see? Who does our young Mr. Tress resemble, hmm? Blue eyes, blond hair, tall…" he prodded.

"Lord Weaver," she said suddenly in realization. "You think he's Lord Weaver's son?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it? We already know that Lord Weaver isn't a faithful husband; it doesn't seem implausible that he might carry on a relationship with some of his staff. Plus, Mr. Tress seemed very well-mannered for a pauper, wouldn't you say? What if he's been aiding his son – educating him – in secret?" he said.

"So you think Lord Weaver was the one that attacked me? Why would he go to such lengths?" she asked skeptically.

"He was afraid you would figure it out," he explained.

"Yes, I understand that, but, like you said, we already know that he isn't a faithful husband. It wouldn't be as if it would ruin his reputation…" she countered.

"But it would – things are different once a child is involved. It might not _ruin _his reputation, but it would definitely put a rather unsightly stain on it. His primary mistress, Miss Knightly, is no housemaid – she's from a respectable family. Katherine Graystone, on the other hand, well, she's his cook…" he said, snickering slightly at the ridiculousness of the case he had just solved.

"I suppose you're right…" she began. Suddenly, something clicked. "We can check!" she said in realization.

"Beg pardon?" he said.

"We can go see if you're right. My attacker, you cut him on the arm – it would be quite visible…" she said.

"I did, didn't I!" he said excitedly, "Yes, yes, we must go check." He made a jolted move towards the door.

"Right now?" she questioned.

"Yes, right now, come on!" he said, grabbing her wrist and opening the door.

Together, they ran down the stairs in an almost manic dash. Holmes stomped at the bottom of the steps, causing Watson and Irene to look at him from the kitchen. Watson smirked triumphantly at the sight of Holmes' hand on Clara's wrist; Irene, in contrast, scowled at it. However, Holmes did not stop at the bottom of the stairs, like they expected him to; instead, he went straight towards the door, Clara in tow. Irene and Watson looked at each other confusedly and jumped up to follow him. Watson ran up beside Holmes, clutching his hat to his head.

"Where are we going?" he shouted over the din of mid-day traffic.

"Lord Weaver's house," he stated, looking straight ahead.

"Why?" his friend asked in bewilderment. He honestly could not think of any reason that they should be going to Lord Weaver's house.

"I've come to believe that he was Clara's assailant," he clarified.

"What? Why?" Watson asked. Now, he was even more confused.

"I'll explain later," he said.

"What's going on?" Irene hissed in Watson's ear. He explained to her what Holmes had told him.

"Clara was attacked?" was her response.

*

Holmes banged on the door frantically. The butler opened the door and looked at him with a very surprised expression.

"Hello, Mr. Taylor, is Lord Weaver in?" he questioned before the elderly man had a chance to speak.

"No, he is not. He's away on business," he sputtered. Clearly, he was flustered by the detective's urgent demeanor.

Holmes was visibly disappointed. "How _convenient,_" he said bitterly, turning around to face his companions. "Do you know when he'll be back?" he asked, turning back to Mr. Taylor.

"No, sir, regretfully, I do not," the butler replied.

"Very well," the other man responded – he appeared to have broken out of his hurried trance. "Sorry to bother you," he said, bowing slightly to the old man.

"Good day, sir," he replied, shutting the door.

"That's an odd coincidence," Watson said blankly.

"Coincidences do not exist," Holmes replied, "He must have feared we would come."

"Now what?" Irene snapped impatiently.

Holmes sighed. "I suppose we should just go back to Baker Street – it's getting late. We can interview Mr. Blake tomorrow," he said.

* * *

**A/N: So things are getting more complicated... I was kind of unsure of how Holmes would try to apologize or cheer someone up, but I did the best I could. I can't see him as being sentimental, but he's already been so cool that I didn't think he would act like that either. Oh well, I don't know. Hopefully it was alright. Please review!!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Chapter 9! I can believe how long this has gotten! It feels like I just started writing. Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and hopefully you will all like this one! :)

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**

**Chapter IX**

They walked slowly back to the house. The sun was just beginning to set, and Clara felt as if the day had gone well. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her soul; they'd solved a case (a minor one, but it was still solved) and she had reconciled with Holmes. Finally, things seemed to be looking up. She slowed down a bit so that she was walking beside Watson. He was to thank for her emotional liberation; he had been the one to force her to talk to Holmes. Without him, who knows where she would have been. He always came through for her – always. He glanced up briefly and flashed her a quick smile, acknowledging her presence, and then returned his gaze to the ground. He had one hand on his walking stick and the other was hanging loosely by his side. Feeling rather audacious, she slipped her hand into his and intertwined their fingers. He looked up at her again, only this time his expression was one of mild surprise. In response, she leant her head against his shoulder.

"Thank you, John," she said.

"Don't mention it," he replied, "I'm just glad you two have sorted things out. Quite honestly, I can't say that my intentions were _entirely_ selfless – I was definitely tired of your bickering. The both of you sounded like an old married couple."

Clara scoffed. "One could say the same of you two as well," she quipped.

"That's not the first time I've been told so, unfortunately. He must have that effect on people," he replied lightly.

"Perhaps…" she said. They walked in a pleasant silence until they reached the doorstep of 221B. Watson turned to face Clara and looked down at their hands quizzically.

"Clara, I – " he started, knitting his brows together; she could tell that he was attempting to formulate some sort of gentle reminder that they were only friends.

"Wait," she interrupted, "Before you feel the need to explain, you must know that I don't mean anything by this. It has no implications whatsoever; I simply wanted to – to show you my gratitude – how much you mean to me. Nothing more. "

Watson met her gaze with relief. "Oh – oh alright. Good," he said.

She opened the door and waited for him to come inside. "I'll be in in a minute," he said. She simply nodded and shut the door. He sat down on the top step, allowing himself to be consumed by thought.

Dear Watson was feeling very confused. Many months ago, before his marriage, Clara looked at him very differently than she did now. He couldn't figure out exactly what was different, but something had definitely changed. He hadn't recognized it then (or, rather, he hadn't wanted to recognize it), but she used to look at him with a gaze full of unrequited love. It was as if she loved him so much – but had to restrain herself so much – that it was actually painful. That look had vanished. Now, she looked at him with an expression that was still very full of love, but not as passionate as before. And then it hit him: she was in love with Holmes. She _had _to be – why else would he be able to affect her so? _And she doesn't even know it! _he realized. He chuckled lightly to himself, amused by his revelation. However, he suddenly turned serious. _Oh no, no, no – bad – this is bad… She can't love him – it'll only break her heart. He is incapable of love_, he thought. But maybe he was being too pessimistic – perhaps Holmes could, indeed, love. He certainly seemed to care for Clara; that was a start. Maybe he did love her, very, very, very deep down – so deep down that he would never realize it. Never realize it without a bit of _help_, that is. And Watson considered himself to be a very helpful person, by nature. If anyone could get Holmes to realize his feelings, it was he.

Watson put his face in his hands – this, of course, would be an extremely difficult task. He would never cease to be amazed by his own bad fortune – of course _he _would be surrounded by two people too stubborn to admit to being in love with one another. Holmes would obviously be the more difficult to get through to of the pair, but Clara certainly wouldn't be a walk in the park, either. _Curse my benevolent nature_, he thought somewhat jokingly. He knew that he wouldn't be able to bear watching the two of them completely ignore their feelings for one another for very long, and he was the only one who would intervene. Like it or not, he was probably going to be stuck with Holmes until death, and it was quite possible that Clara would be around for a while, too. He might as well make the best of this situation, he supposed, and that meant making sure they would be happy. The only way to do that was to have them admit their feelings for each other. Otherwise, he would be looking forward to a lethal mix of jealously, petty arguments, and snide remarks for the remainder of his natural life.

"So this is what I've been reduced to," he muttered wryly to himself, "I'm a trained doctor and a decorated war veteran, and here I am playing matchmaker." Shaking his head in semi-disbelief, he stepped into the house – despite his reservations, his mission was decisively established.

However, when he walked into his and Holmes' room, he realized that there was a rather significant complication in his plan, and that complication was Irene Adler. Said complication was firmly pressed up against his regrettably disheveled-looking flatmate, and appeared to be whispering something in his ear (although, she could have been kissing his neck, but Watson opted to believe the less risqué of the two possibilities).

"Ahem," he said loudly, averting his gaze to the right.

Irene turned around quickly and said, "Oh, nice to see you, doctor," without missing a beat.

Holmes, on the other hand, appeared to be more flustered. He anxiously brushed off his shirt and tried to shake off his embarrassment at having been caught.

"I was just going," Irene said silkily, "Good bye, Sherlock, doctor." She flashed them both a dazzling smile and let herself out of the room.

When he was quite sure she was gone, Watson asked, "What do you think she'll do when the case is over?"

"I don't know," Holmes replied, "She'll probably go back to America, or France, or some such country. Why?"

"Aren't you going to miss her?" he asked confusedly.

"Well," he began, a bit surprised at his friend's forwardness, "I suppose, but this is how it always goes. She'll turn up again eventually."

"I'll never understand you – if the two of you want to be together, why don't you just do it? You both are clearly willing," Watson said.

"It's very complicated," Holmes began delicately, "I can't just up and marry her – she's a master criminal and I'm one of London's most revered and upstanding citizens (at this, his tone became quite sarcastic and he appeared to be imitating some sort of upper-crust snob)."

"You could move away," his friend suggested.

Holmes gave him a disparaging look. "Are you in earnest? Why in the devil would I do that?" he asked.

"Well, if you love her –" Watson began.

However, Holmes cut him off, "Who said I loved her? I certainly _like_ her, but I like my profession more. I would never give up being a detective, you know that. I would go mad without work. Plus, neither of us are suitable candidates for _marriage_ (Watson could have sworn he saw Holmes shudder at the very mention of the word)."

"That's true," Watson conceded, "I just don't understand why you haven't attempted to work something more – what's the word? _permanent_ out with her."

"Why are you bringing this up all of a sudden?" Holmes asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

"Simply harmless curiosity," his companion replied nonchalantly.

"You shouldn't scheme, old boy, you're no good at it," Holmes said dismissively – he had no desire to continue the conversation any further.

*

Clara awoke groggily to see the early morning sunlight seep through her drapes. Judging by its intensity, she surmised that it must have been around eight o'clock. Like every morning, she washed her face in her water basin and studied her appearance in the mirror. She swept her now shoulder-length auburn hair into a loose bun and slipped in a decorated hair pin for effect. She'd had to cut her previously waist-length hair after the last case, and it had been a very traumatizing experience – especially since Holmes had been the one doing the cutting. She wasn't happy with the result, but it was better than having half-dyed hair, she supposed.

And then her thoughts went to Irene, who would most likely be arriving soon. Irene's increasingly frequent presence had been causing her to become much more preoccupied with her looks, for some reason. Subconsciously, she knew that that reason was jealousy, but she chose not to acknowledge it. She was pretty (sometimes even very pretty, she would concede), depending on one's taste, but Irene was indisputably gorgeous.

A crash from outside her room roused her from her thoughts. Clara opened her door to find none other than the notorious Sherlock Holmes standing before her.

"What is this?" he asked accusatorily, pointing to a parcel in his hand.

"I haven't a clue, why?" she countered confusedly.

"It was pinned to your door. It's from William Tress," he said.

"Give that to me!" she snapped, snatching the paper out of his grasp.

It read:

_Dearest Clarissa, _

_I hope you are well. I was wondering if you would like to dine with me tonight – I have found some information that may be useful to your investigation. Perhaps at seven? I can meet you at the corner of Boundary Street, if you like._

_Best regards, _

_William_

"I wonder how he found this address," she muttered.

"He must have looked me up – did you tell him that you live next door to us?" Holmes reasoned.

Clara nodded her head slowly in affirmation.

"Are you going to go?" he asked.

"Well, yes, obviously! He said that he had information relating to the case. Plus, I should like to ask him about his parentage – maybe he can offer us some sort of clue as to his relation to Lord Weaver, even if he doesn't say anything outright," she replied. "What are you doing up anyway?" she asked as an afterthought.

"I heard him come leave it there a minute ago," he said. "You certainly are a heavy sleeper – you just missed him."

"Did you talk to him?" Clara asked.

"No, I didn't want to interfere with his intentions," he answered. They stood awkwardly in silence for a few moments.

"So, when will Irene be arriving?" she asked lamely.

"Around nine, I think she said," he answered in an equally detached tone. "You don't like her, do you?" he asked a few moments later.

"Well," she began carefully, "I wouldn't say _that_, if anything, I'd say it's the other way around – it's _she_ who doesn't like _me_."

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Oh please, Holmes. Don't pretend you haven't noticed. She definitely does not like me," she replied.

"Women are such a funny sort. They are either dreadfully close friends or bitter enemies. There's no in-between," he said.

Clara opened her mouth to protest, but she realized that he was actually right. All her female friends from childhood had been like sisters to her, and, most of the other women she met, she didn't like.

"That's quite the interesting observation," she said finally.

"So you admit it's true?" he said, surprised at her decision to not deny his claim.

"I admit that there is some truth to what you say, yes," she replied.

"Interesting. And you see nothing wrong with this reality?" he asked.

"It's just the way it is. It can't be changed – why should I dwell on it?" she countered.

"Dwell on what?" the voice of Irene Adler asked. Clearly, she had no interest in what they were discussing, but she wanted to make her presence known. She was standing the top of the staircase, watching them. She didn't appear to have been there for very long.

"Hello, Irene," Holmes said. A small smirk graced his face, giving Clara a very uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I'll go get John," she said quickly. She speedily walked over to Holmes' door and let herself in (which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best idea).

Watson was sitting at the table, reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea. He glanced up at her, smirked, and said, "So, we've gotten past the point of knocking, then?"

Clara smiled bashfully. "Sorry, Irene's out there and I just came in to tell you that we should get going. We're going to go interview Mr. Blake at his office," she said apologetically.

"Ah, I see," he started, "Well, then, let's go."

*

Mr. Blake's office was quite conservative; it was not flashy or ornate in the least. The most adventurous aspect of it was a large assortment of potted plants. All in all, one would never expect it to belong to the Mr. Gregory Blake that they had pictured. From what they knew, Mr. Blake was a womanizer, a liberal spender of money, a lawyer, a man with a penchant for liquor, and an enthusiastic botanist. Even Mr. Blake's dress was not out of the ordinary. He was a handsome man, but his looks were downplayed by his ensemble of muted brown tones. He had dark brown eyes and hair, with a fairly olive complexion. He appeared to be about the same age as Holmes and Watson.

"Hello," he said, "May I help you?"

"Yes, actually," Holmes began, "I am Detective Sherlock Holmes, and these are my associates, Dr. John Watson and Miss Clara Barker. I presume that you and Miss Adler are already acquainted." Irene smiled kindly at him.

"Yes, we are," Blake confirmed, "Why do you need to talk to me?"

"Are you aware that Miss Adler's necklace was stolen the night of Lord Weaver's dinner party?" Holmes asked.

Blake paled visibly and his demeanor became very nervous. "No, I was not. Surely you don't suspect me…"

"Well, Mr. Blake, we've been informed that you were planning to steal the necklace and had devised some sort of drug that would cause the guests to go into an almost coma-like sleep, which would allow you to steal the necklace, undetected," he said.

"Now look here," he started defensively, "I may have been planning to do that, but I couldn't go through with it. Francis is one of my good friends – I wouldn't do that to him. Your source must've mentioned that."

"They did, but if you didn't steal the necklace, then how did the drug wind up in everyone's drinks?" Holmes interrogated.

"I-I don't know, perhaps someone stole it from me. When I got back to my home, I was in a horrible state of disarray – I didn't realize that the tonic was gone until the next morning, after it was too late," he answered.

"Why did you admit that you were planning to steal the necklace that night?" Holmes pressed.

"Honestly, I regret it deeply, but I wasn't thinking properly. I'd had far too much to drink – surely you understand…" Blake pleaded.

Watson snickered. "Oh yes, he understands perfectly," he said. Holmes shot him a dangerous glare.

"When you admitted your plans, was the drug still in your possession?" he asked.

"Yes, I believe it was," Blake answered, his hand automatically going to his trouser pocket. "Perhaps someone overheard my confession and stole it from me," he added.

Holmes looked at him pensively and finally said, "Thank you, sir, that will be all." Clara looked at him, surprised that he had ended the interview so quickly.

"You're sure we have everything we need?" she whispered to him as they were leaving.

"Quite sure. What, do you doubt me?" he teased.

"No, it's just – " she began.

"When I asked him about the drug, towards the end of the questioning, his hand automatically went to his pocket. It was clearly a subconscious motion, which means that he most likely did the same when he was talking to Miss Patel. Such a motion would give away the drug's location, making it easier to pickpocket said item," he interrupted.

"But, how do you know he's innocent?" she asked.

"I don't just yet, but I have the nagging feeling that we should pay those sisters another visit," he answered.

"You think Anatara did it?" she questioned.

"Not necessarily, but we need to find out who shetold about Mr. Blake's little confession and when she told them," he replied.

"I didn't get the impression that she'd told anyone," Clara said.

"Perhaps she didn't think she told anyone untrustworthy," he reasoned.

"But she didn't know anyone there – how could she make that judgment?" she asked.

"Well that's not exactly true," he said vaguely.

"You think one of her sisters… ?" she questioned.

"Perhaps. We'll just have to wait and see," he said.

* * *

**A/N: OK Clara/Watson fans, don't give up just yet, I still am not really sure which way I want the story to go. (But I'm leaning towards Clara/Holmes...) If I _do _decide to make it Clara/Holmes, I think I'm going to write another, totally separate, Watson/OC story. And if you've been missing William Tress, we're going to be seeing more of him in the next chapter. Please review!! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Chapter 10! Hope you enjoy, it's a long one :)

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**Chapter X**

It was still early, and the group decided to go to the Patel residence immediately. However, halfway through their journey, Holmes decided that he wanted to go back to Baker Street (much to everyone's frustration). When he was finished with god-knows-what he was doing, they hailed a cab to take them to the Patel abode in order to save time. When Holmes knocked on the door, Mr. Patel did not look particularly thrilled to see him.

"What do you want?" he asked abruptly.

"We've returned for further questioning," Holmes replied. "Do you have some tea or anything? I'm simply parched," he added. Clara shook her head in futility at his utter lack of formality and Watson, who seemed to share her sentiments, put a hand to his face. Irene, in contrast, appeared to find it rather amusing.

Mr. Patel was a bit shocked by Holmes' forwardness, but didn't dare to cross him – he _was _London's best detective, after all. Instead, he nodded curtly and called something to his wife.

"Would you like to speak with my daughters?" he asked.

"Yes, that would be lovely," Holmes replied.

Mr. Patel called his daughters from the foot of the staircase and, sure enough, the three of them pranced down obediently a few moments later.

"Hello Dr. Watson," Devyani cooed when she saw the doctor.

"Hello," Watson said stiffly, looking at his companions (who were all trying to disguise their amused grins) in embarrassment.

Mrs. Patel came out of the kitchen with a tea tray and Holmes, being the valiant gentleman that he was, offered to help. He took the tray from her and Clara could have sworn she saw him slip something into one of the cups. She blinked twice and caught his gaze – surely her eyes had been deceiving her. However, he gave a knowing look, which confirmed her suspicions. She looked at Irene and Watson, and it appeared that they had noticed as well. Luckily, none of the Patel family seemed to have caught it. When he went to sit down, he gave each member of the party a cup; he gave the one he had tampered with to Mala (much to Clara's bewilderment).

"Antara, may I speak to you in private for a moment?" Clara asked.

"Of course," she replied, leading her into one of the backrooms of the house. The room she took her into was some sort of storage facility, and Clara spotted a wooden sign that listed show times. Judging by the number of posters and signs lying around, the Patels weren't getting much work.

"When you found out about Mr. Blake's plans," she started, "who did you tell?"

"No one," she replied earnestly.

"Are you sure? Not even your sisters?" she pressed.

"I did tell my sisters," she admitted sheepishly.

"Did you tell them immediately after you found out?" she asked.

"Yes, but only because Mala had asked me what he was saying – she saw us talking and I didn't want her to think it was anything inappropriate, so I told her the truth," she answered.

"Alright," Clara began, "Thank you, that's all I wanted to know."

Suddenly, there as a loud crash in the other room and Clara and Antara rushed in to see what had happened. Clara wasn't surprised to see Mala lying on the floor, unconscious. The Patel family was in a state of panic and Watson had hastened to her side; he was beginning to inspect her. He checked her breathing, her stomach, and other routine areas. He looked at Holmes intently; there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the two. After a few minutes, she came around to see Watson hovering over her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she said nervously, "Really, I'm fine. No need to worry – I haven't had much to eat today, it was probably just that."

Watson looked at her skeptically and helped her sit up. "You're sure?" he asked.

"Positive," she confirmed, eager to get out of his grasp.

"We should be going," Holmes began, "Perhaps we can come back another time – we ought to let her rest."

"You're sure she'll be alright?" Mr. Patel asked Watson worriedly.

"Yes, she just needs some time off her feet," he replied.

"Good bye, everyone, thank you for your patience," Holmes said as he opened the door to leave.

*

"So?" Holmes asked Watson expectantly.

"She's with child," he answered, "But how could you possibly know? She's only in the very early stages."

"What?!" Irene and Clara asked in unison.

"Yes," Watson began, "I realized it after she fainted, when I was examining her."

"So _that's _why you did that," Clara said to Holmes, referring to when he slipped the concoction into her tea.

"But how did you know?" Irene asked, echoing Watson's question.

"Just call it a hunch," Holmes said vaguely. "What made me think of the possibility in the first place was the whole Weaver-Tress debacle. I remembered that she was quite quiet and looked rather sickly during our last encounter, as well."

"But she's not married," Clara said.

"No, really?" Holmes drawled sarcastically.

"So, then, obviously her family doesn't know," Irene said.

"They must not," Watson said, "And the fact that she is to have a child out of wedlock – I mean, the stigma that she is going to face… Her family will most likely shun her."

"I'd say that's an awfully good incentive to run away," Clara said, beginning to piece things together.

"And what do you need to run away?" Holmes prodded. "Comfortably, that is," he added.

"Money," Clara muttered in realization.

"Yes," Holmes remarked.

"But who could be the father?" Irene asked.

"That, I honestly don't know," Holmes said.

"Well, then, that's what we need to find out," Clara said resolutely.

"Why do we need to find that out? If she stole the diamond, she stole the diamond. Why does it matter who the father is?" Watson asked.

"It matters because, if she wasn't waiting for something, she would have run away already. Why would she wait, if not for her partner in crime, as it were," Holmes explained.

*

"You're really going?" Holmes asked Clara. They were standing somewhat awkwardly in the upstairs hallway; Irene had gone back to her hotel to get ready for a night out and Watson was inside his and Holmes' room.

"Yes, of course – aren't you curious about what he might have to say?" she countered.

"Yes, but I just don't trust him. Don't you recall what happened last time you went out with him?" he pressed.

"Holmes, you don't trust _anyone_. And plus, what happened last time wasn't William's fault," she said.

"I know, but – "

"Sherlock, please," she said, looking him meaningfully in the eye. She wanted him to understand that it was moments like these that caused her to think there might be something between them; moments like these that had to stop. Naturally, he understood what she was trying to convey – he always did.

"Alright," he said, "but keep your wits about you – I won't be following you this time."

She studied his face for a moment; she knew that she should be happy with his decision to let her alone, but she couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. He was doing the very thing that she had asked him to - he was respecting her wishes, which meant that he had actually taken her feelings into consideration. That, she reckoned, was a pretty large victory in itself. She'd come to feel very safe around Holmes, and the fact that she was to venture out without him was strangely unnerving. Perhaps he was right - what if something _did_ happen, like last time? What would she do? However, she pushed these insecurities out of her head - she was probably just nervous.

*

"Where is Clara going?" Watson asked his friend.

"She's going to dine with William Tress," Holmes replied, picking a book up from off the coffee table.

"You're sure that's safe?" he said skeptically.

"Well, I can't follow her – we both remember how well that went," he said sarcastically.

"I see your point," Watson admitted. "Why do you suppose this William Tress has such an interest in her, anyway?" he added as an afterthought.

"I don't know, she's attractive, I suppose. I mean he's younger than we are – that's all men typically think of at that age, if my memory serves me correctly," Holmes said snidely.

"You don't strike me as having been that way," Watson remarked.

"Oh, I'm not saying _I _was that way, but I certainly remember my peers – especially at the university – being as such. And, my dear Watson, when we first met, you were quite the…"

"Your point is duly noted," he snapped hastily. Holmes smirked at him knowingly.

"Do you think anything will come of this relationship?" Watson asked, trying to change the subject.

"I doubt it – he seems to have a very short attention span, from what I could tell," he replied. "And if you want an honest answer to your question – the one about why he has an interest in her – I think perhaps he is trying to distract us from something. He's trying to use her as a sort of shield."

"You don't sound worried," Watson noted.

"No, because I don't think it'll work. I doubted Clara before, but I don't think she'll be swayed by his charm. Plus, she may actually retrieve some useful information from this little endeavor. It might just be best to allow this to take its course," he replied.

"And just what accounts for this change in opinion?" his friend asked.

"Her heart belongs to another, and, if nothing else, Clara is loyal. I don't think she'll become too emotionally attached to him," he answered. Although, he didn't actually know how much truth there was to his statement; prior experience told him that she _did _have a tendency to change her mind...

"And to whom are you referring?" Watson pressed, thinking he was making headway. However, he was sorely disappointed.

"You, of course, she's absolutely crazy for you," he stated as if it were obvious.

"But I would never think to love anyone else – not after what happened! I _could_ never love anyone else… she knows that… My heart will only ever belong to Mary."

"It doesn't change that she won't carry on a relationship with Tress," Holmes explained.

"Say she did, hypothetically," Watson said.

"What do want me to say?" he asked, setting the book down, "That I would be jealous? Perhaps I would be a bit jealous, but that's normal – it's merely human nature – it doesn't mean I'm in love with her."

"You're wrong about her loving me," Watson said resolutely after a moment.

"I beg your pardon?" Holmes asked irritably.

"I said, you're wrong. She might have before, but she doesn't now. I can see it in her eyes," he answered.

"Fine, if you say so, but that doesn't change how _I _feel about her," Holmes said exasperatedly.

*

Clara was excited to see William Tress again, but she was also wary of his motives. She'd racked her brain over and over again, and she couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for his interest in her. The only thing she could think of was that he might be trying to distract her from his involvement in the case. She willed herself to like him, she really did, but she just couldn't bring herself to fully trust him. Something was off. Especially after finding out his relation to Lord Weaver – Weaver had always given her the impression of being a sneak. But, when she actually saw William, with his perfectly handsome face and genuine smile, her worries nearly dissipated.

"Hello, Clarissa," he said upon coming face-to-face with her.

"Hello, William," she echoed. It was almost as if he had the ability to lull her into some sort of trance. When he spoke to her, he gave her his full attention – it was like she was the only person on earth.

"Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm. She gladly slipped her arm through his, grinning like a fool.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I've been saving up – I didn't want to take you to that dodgy old pub again. Such a place isn't fit for a lady of your stature. Although, I can't say I can afford to take you to the Royale or anything – I hope you'll be able to forgive me," he explained.

"It's quite alright. I don't really pay much attention to such sorts of things anyway," she said brightly. She could honestly say that was true – she was never one to dwell on class distinctions and the like.

*

They sat down at a private table in a perfectly respectable restaurant. Clara, despite her slight infatuation with William, was determined to get as much information out of him as possible.

"So," she began as soon as their drinks arrived, "tell me about yourself. Last time we only talked about me – I'd love to hear your story."

"Well, I was born in London, as I think I mentioned… I work various odd jobs and such… That's really it," he said.

"Nonsense," she insisted, "what about your parents? Do you have any siblings?"

"Unfortunately," he began, "my parents died when I was just a lad. And I don't have any siblings, either."

"I'm so sorry, that's horrible," she said sympathetically. "Where did you grow up?"

"They sent me to a workhouse – it was a shoe-polish factory – I stayed there until I was around fourteen," he answered.

"What about your aunt?" she asked.

"She took me in afterward," he said hesitantly, "she's really been like a mother to me." _Like a mother to you? _thought Clara wryly. There was a comfortable silence before she spoke up again.

"You said you had some information pertaining to the case?" she asked curiously – she'd nearly forgotten their reason for meeting.

"Oh, yes, of course. I believe that Mr. Blake might be responsible for the robbery," he answered.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Well," he said, leaning over the table and bringing his voice to a whisper, "he's a botanist and he devised some sort of potion that would cause people to sleep heavily – that would allow him to steal the diamond in night without anyone noticing."

William studied Clara's face for a moment, before saying, "You don't seem surprised."

She smiled politely. "I'm truly thankful that you would go through the effort to find out that information, but I'm afraid we already knew that," she responded.

He grinned at her, "You detectives really aren't fooling around, are you? I must say, I'm impressed."

"How, may I ask, did you find out that information?" Clara asked innocently.

"You remember those Indian performers? I looked them up and I asked if they'd heard anything suspicious that night," he answered.

"And they just told you? I didn't realize you were on such familiar terms with them," she commented.

"Oh I'm not," he said defensively, "I just told them that I was helping with a case."

His tone raised Clara's suspicion; something was definitely awry. Suddenly, a notion struck her: perhaps she could search his flat. Surely it would be useful to do, but it would also be difficult. And there was only one way she could think of gaining entrance to his living space. She bit the flesh of her lip contemplatively; was it possible? Perhaps she should take a page out of Irene's book, as it were. Never in a million years would she consider herself skilled in the art of seduction, but, as they say, desperate times call for desperate measures. Plus, it wasn't as if it would be unpleasant… Yes, she finally decided, it must be done.

For the rest of the evening, Clara acted as flirtatious as she possibly could without seeming ridiculous. She briefly thought of what Holmes and Watson might say if they saw her in such a state – she mentally ran through what their individual reactions would be, much to her own amusement. She imagined Watson would be rather scandalized, whereas Holmes would undoubtedly find it quite amusing. A small smile must have graced her face, because William commented on it.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked curiously. She made sure to order a sufficient supply of spirits to serve her purpose, and from the tone of his voice she could tell that her plan was coming along nicely.

"Oh, nothing – just how enjoyable this evening has turned out to be," she said, peering at him coyly through her eyelashes. She had to admit, as painful as it'd been to watch Irene with Holmes, she had certainly learned a few tricks.

"Good, I'm glad that you are enjoying yourself," he said.

Clara looked down at the table; his hands were very close to hers. Slowly and carefully, she inched hers even closer to his, until they were just about touching. Taking her cue, William gently grasped her hands; she smiled inwardly – he definitely wasn't the most difficult of targets. In fact, he seemed to be living up to the nickname Holmes had haphazardly assigned him – "Casanova." His readiness to go along with her advances was a bit disconcerting and it put his charms in a new light. Instead of warm and genuine, they were beginning to seem shady and devious.

They walked back to Boundary Street together, arm in arm. Clara decided that she would take a cab back to Baker Street, so as to avoid any potential danger. However, that wouldn't be until later – her plan had hardly been put into motion. They stopped outside the door to his building and looked at one another. It was one of those significant, deciding moments – she knew that she had to act; otherwise, the opportunity would be lost. Suddenly, she became very nervous and she was afraid she would miss her chance – she wouldn't do that, though, she knew had to push past her hesitation. Without another thought, she practically threw herself at him. The kiss was sloppy and it wasn't one she was very proud of, but it seemed to do the trick. He responded immediately, but broke away after a few moments; he looked at her and searched her eyes – she knew what question was going to come next, she could feel it.

"Would you like to come inside?" he asked huskily.

_Just like clockwork_, she mused triumphantly. She nodded bashfully with faux shyness and allowed herself to be led upstairs to his flat. She couldn't say that it was particularly nice, but it was nicer than she expected. It wasn't messy or dirty, but the quality of his furnishings was not as fine as she was used to. As he put his cravat on the coat rack, she noticed a small sealed envelope on his desk; it was apparent that it hadn't been opened yet. His name was on the letter, but what she found particularly intriguing was the fact that the handwriting was very similar to the lettering of the signs she had seen at the Patel residence. The desk was across the room, and she quickly tried to think of how she might pocket the message without getting caught.

"Might I have something to drink?" she asked silkily.

"Yes of course," he replied, smiling slyly at her.

While his back was turned, Clara slowly made her way over to the desk and stood in front of it, her back to the note. However, just before she could snatch it, he turned around and began to walk towards her. He handed her the glass and it became apparent that he had her trapped up against the desk. Clara took a small, dainty sip of the liquor, before setting it down. She smirked seductively at him and pulled him to her by the collar of his shirt. She began to kiss him again, and, while he was distracted, she grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into the folds of her dress. Kissing him was extremely pleasant and she could tell that he was very _experienced._ But, as nice as it was, there was something lacking - something that you would only miss if you had experienced it before. After a moment, she pulled away abruptly.

"Oh dear," she began hurriedly, "I have to go! Oh my goodness, I'm sorry, I totally forgot – my aunt doesn't like it if I'm out past eleven. If I'm not back, she'll send Holmes and Watson to come looking for me." Her quick, slurred lie caught him off guard and he looked at her in a sort of half-lidded confusion. She pushed past him and made her way to the door.

"Good bye, William, thank you for everything. I'll be seeing you soon, I hope," she said, rushing out of the house, leaving poor Mr. Tress dumbfounded. As soon as she was outside, she hastily tore open the letter – it read simply:

_They know._

_M._

Right away, she suspected "M." to be Mala – it had to be. She was absolutely thrilled with her findings and wanted to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible to inform her colleagues of her discovery. To her immense fortune, there happened to be a cab waiting right near the building. She immediately got inside, but before she could tell the driver her destination, she was blindfolded.

"Miss Barker, I believe?" was the first thing she heard.

* * *

**A/N: OK so I was going to make this two chapters, but I decided to just make it one. I wanted to make it two because so much stuff happens, but I thought you guys could handle it lol. So yeah, we're seeing a whole new side to Clara AND William. Very interesting... And who could be in the cab?? It's not who you might think... Please review!!! Reviews make my life :) (And tomorrow's going to be a very bad day for me so it would be nice to have something to cheer me up...)  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, Thursday didn't turn out to be that bad after all! Here's chapter 11! And happy Easter to those of you who celebrate it!

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**Chapter XI**

"Who are you?!" Clara asked fearfully. Someone was holding her arms so that she couldn't move, and she couldn't see anything, either.

"Don't fret, my dear, I'm merely a cab driver. My employer, who is to remain anonymous – for the time being, anyway – has dispatched me with the purpose of bringing you back to him," the voice said calmly.

"Why?! " she asked.

"That, I do not know," he said.

"Who else is here? Who blindfolded me?" she questioned frantically.

"I am just another one of my employer's staff," a different voice replied. This was the person holding her, judging by the proximity of the sound.

Clara began to struggle violently against the person holding her in a desperate attempt to escape.

"Now, now, Miss, if you don't collect yourself, we were instructed to sedate you," the closer voice said. However, Clara ignored him and pounded on the carriage door with her feet. Even if she couldn't break free, perhaps someone would notice what was going on and help her. Unfortunately, she had no such luck; she felt a quick prick in her arm and her consciousness began to fade.

*

Watson was sitting anxiously in an armchair, while Holmes was pacing the room apprehensively. Both were fervently watching the clock, which had now struck midnight.

"She hasn't returned," he muttered, "Why hasn't she returned?"

"Perhaps she's just running a bit late," his friend assured him.

"Something's wrong – I knew we shouldn't have trusted that William Tress. I swear – if he did anything to her…" Holmes growled angrily.

"Relax for a minute – I mean, we shouldn't a assume the worst…" Watson was trying to be levelheaded, but, from the tone of his voice, it was apparent that he, too, was beginning to get worried. However, he was a bit surprised at Holmes' uncharacteristic protectiveness – he sounded as if he wanted to rip poor William's throat out.

"I'm going over there," Holmes said decidedly.

"Alright, I'm going with you," Watson added, finally giving up his disinterested façade.

Together and fuming, they made their way over to William Tress's building. Holmes picked the lock of the main entrance, and Watson, using his walking stick, rapped loudly on William's door. Mr. Tress opened the door and looked from Holmes to Watson fearfully.

"She's not here!" he protested immediately.

"Do you mind if we have a look inside?" Holmes asked menacingly. William shook his head eagerly, clearly intimidated by the pair of angry men in front of him.

Holmes casually stepped into the flat and carefully surveyed the area. Clara wasn't there at the moment, but she had been. He glanced to the cravat that had been carelessly thrown over the coat rack to the drink sitting on the desk; the contents of this glass were clearly alcoholic, but much of the liquid was still left. There was another, empty glass in the corner of the room. Judging by William's state, the empty glass was his and the full one had been Clara's. The condition of the cravat indicated that he had entered the room in a hurry and had been fully occupied – most likely by his female companion, if Holmes had to venture a guess. As he began to piece together his findings, he felt an unfamiliar sensation boil up in his stomach; it was similar to anger, but it wasn't quite the same.

"She _was_ here," William explained to Watson, "but she left about an hour ago – she said she had to get back before eleven."

"Did she?" said Watson.

"Yes, she said that if she didn't get back that her aunt would send the two of you to look for her," he replied. Holmes and Watson looked at each other meaningfully; Clara had lied, which meant she needed an excuse to leave quickly.

"What were you doing before she left?" Watson asked tentatively.

William hesitantly opened his mouth to reply, but Holmes spared him.

"I think we both know what they were doing, Watson, if you catch my drift," he said. Watson raised his eyebrows and looked at William (who had since averted his gaze to a particularly intriguing patch on the carpet) uncomfortably. The situation was extremely awkward, to say the least.

"How did she get home?" Holmes questioned.

"She took a cab, I think," he said simply.

"Alright, well, thank you. Have a nice night," the detective said awkwardly, leaving the room in a hurry. Perhaps they should find Irene – maybe she knew something…

*

They located Irene in the lobby of the Grand Hotel; she was surrounded by people and had her arm around the waist of a handsome sailor who couldn't have been a day over eighteen.

"Irene!" Holmes called from across the room.

"Oh, Sherlock! Quelle surprise! What are you doing here?" she asked, gracefully abandoning her young sailor to go over to talk to him.

"I have reason to suspect that Clara's been kidnapped," he explained.

"Oh, pooh. Her again? That one's always getting into trouble," she said, tipsily waving her champagne glass at Holmes.

"Irene, seriously," he said, prying the champagne glass from her hand, "I need you to focus. Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary?"

She looked towards the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment, before she appeared to remember something.

"Oh, yes, actually," she said, "Someone left this at the front desk for me. I haven't read it yet; the man said it only just came." From her small purse, she procured a letter and handed it to Holmes; he hastily ripped it open.

"Dear Irene," he started, reading it aloud, "I am sorry to inform you that I've recently received some rather troubling news. It seems that you've lost my family's most prized possession and haven't had the courtesy to tell me. Thankfully, one of my dear friends (who won't be named – I'm sure you understand) took the liberty to update me himself. I have to say, I'm sorely disappointed in you. However, I've also heard that you have attempted to take care of the problem on your own, and have hired a consulting detective (a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe). In any event, I am at least glad that you have begun to address the situation. However, I must tell you that I need the necklace back immediately. It is of the utmost importance that I receive it – I don't think you understand the severity of the circumstances, so I will elaborate: my father is coming to town to check up on me, as he does periodically. He feels the need to make sure that I'm not wasting my inheritance, for whatever reason."

"If I don't have that necklace, he will surely cut me off from our family funds completely and god-knows what else. I know that you were never one to be persuaded, so I decided to strike your detective instead. Hopefully he is more easily motivated. I've taken Clarissa Barker, who I believe is of great importance to him (according to my sources) as collateral. Now, I daresay, I'm not a violent man, but this necklace is more valuable than you can ever know. If I don't get it back, my entire way of life will be compromised. Let me just say, in advance, I'm only doing this out of desperation. If I do not receive the necklace by Saturday at noon, I will have to have Miss Barker eliminated. Please leave the necklace in a box at 12 King James Street – leave it in the cubby marked number 24. I will not meet you there, for obvious reasons. Sincerely, F. Hope."

"Irene," Holmes began through gritted teeth, "how on earth did you get yourself involved with a man who is willing to kill for a mere necklace?!"

"How do you think I met him?! He hired me!" she said defensively. However, she was clearly worried and aware that the situation had gone on too far.

Watson stood silently in half-shock. His face had become quite pale and he looked extremely worried. "You do both realize that it is now Friday?" he said.

*

Clara awoke to find herself in a medium-sized bedroom. The bed she was laying on was very plush, and the furnishings indicated that the room belonged to someone quite wealthy. Immediately, she ran towards the window, only to find that it was barred. It was still dark, but, from what she could make out, they were no longer in London. However, she couldn't have been unconscious for more than a couple hours, so it was likely that they were still very close to the city. She had no idea where she was, or who had taken her there, for that matter. But, judging by the condition of the room, it had to have been someone of the upper class. Perhaps it'd been Lord Weaver – it wouldn't be the first time he'd attacked her coming out of William Tress's flat. _Why is it always me?_ She thought to herself despairingly. She then went towards the bedroom door and attempted to open it; it was locked. She banged on the door loudly.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" she yelled.

A few moments later, someone slipped a sheet of paper under the door. It read:

_You've been taken here as collateral for the diamond necklace. You will be freed once it is returned. However, I must regretfully warn you, if it is not returned by Saturday, there will be no option other than to execute you._

Clara's eyes widened considerably as she read the last line.

"What? Wait, no! Someone, please, help!" she cried to the door. There was no response. She shrunk against the door and brought her knees to her chest. How could this have happened? Why was _she _always the one who got kidnapped? How was Holmes supposed to solve the case without the information that she had? She couldn't just wait there and hope that he succeeded; something must be done – she had to escape.

"Please! I have information that he needs to solve the case!" she shouted woefully.

"Slide it under the door," an unfamiliar voice said coldly. She quickly did as she was told.

"Make sure he gets it!" she said, "It's very important!" Again, no response. Clara sighed unhappily and threw herself on the bed, contemplating her escape. She sincerely hoped that Holmes would take this threat seriously. Why they'd taken _her _was a complete mystery. She wasn't of particular importance to anyone – why hadn't they taken Irene, instead? And if her captor was, indeed, Lord Weaver, why did he want the necklace? Perhaps it wasn't Lord Weaver, after all. But who else could it be?

Then, she remembered: "_Returned_," she thought, _the note said "returned." Which means that whoever kidnapped me was the original owner of the necklace–Lord Hope. That would also explain why he didn't take Irene hostage –she's too important to him to be expendable. _However, she felt better now that she'd given away the note. She knew that Lord Hope had no incentive to prevent Holmes from getting it – it didn't seem as if he wanted to kill her, he just wanted the necklace. It didn't make sense that he would interfere with the solving of the case. 

_Holmes will find me_, she thought resolutely, _He has to find me – he will. He's the best detective the world has ever seen; he won't fail. _Clara had complete faith in Holmes, despite their frequent quarrels. She knew deep down that he was absolutely trustworthy and that he would stop at nothing to solve the case. Even if the fact that her life was at stake wasn't enough to motivate him, the sheer pleasure he got out of ending a mystery would be. But she liked to think that her life _would _be enough to motivate him – even if he wasn't in love with her, she knew that he at least cared about her enough to want to prevent her death.

Then, suddenly, something struck her; here she was, trapped, and she was spending most of her time thinking about Holmes. Holmes – not Watson. She knew that Watson was also extremely intelligent and most likely wanted to get her back even more than Holmes did. And she had thought she loved Watson – but, if she did love him (like she was supposed to), she would have been thinking of him.

And the reason had to be that she loved Holmes; it was a fact that she had evaded recognizing for a quite a while, but it was inevitable. She couldn't avoid the truth any longer. She had tried, _truly_ tried, to forget about him – to shield herself from the pain and disappointment that she knew this epiphany would bring – but it couldn't be done; the reality was too overwhelming. She absolutely loved him. She loved everything – she loved their matches of wit, their petty fights, their teamwork – all of it. She loved his experiments, his arrogance, his bravery, his sheer genius. It was inescapable – she loved _him._ She loved his faults (and she recognized that they were numerous) and she loved his attributes (which, she would admit, were also numerous). And it was an utterly horrible realization because she knew it would destroy her.

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**A/N: Oh, poor Clara... Please review!!! **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Here's chapter 12 :)

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**Chapter XII**

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," was an accurate statement, Holmes surmised. As he found himself without Clara, he realized her importance to him (which was the quite the predictably ironic conclusion, he noted). As immature as it was, he missed her scathing invectives and longed to watch her get irrationally angry over one of his trivial comments once more. But, however many different feelings for her he had whirling around in his body (and there were _many_), the overriding sentiment was one of worry. He'd been thinking about it for a while (since the day of Watson's wedding, to be exact), and he had finally pinpointed what drew him to Irene and Clara; they both had strong personalities. True, they were decidedly different personalities, but neither of them were meek, subservient women, which, he had found, was surprisingly rare.

The two gossiping twits at Watson's wedding reception were what triggered this revelation. When they spoke, he realized that most women simply conformed to a sort of general view of what women should be like. They weren't supposed to exactly think for themselves or have their own opinions; they were expected to share their husbands' (or, in some cases, fathers') beliefs. Simply put, they were hollow. Even Mary had been this way, to some extent. Perhaps that was why he had found her so utterly boring. But Clara and Irene? They were a different story entirely. They were opinionated and feisty, which made them infinitely more interesting. They were harder to figure out – more challenging for him to decipher. But he couldn't decide who he found more fascinating, Clara or Irene. That was his latest personal enigma. But that didn't matter, at the moment – what mattered was saving Clara.

Holmes pondered this newfound reality as he walked back to Baker Street. He'd left Watson and Irene to clear his head – to figure out where the diamond could be. It wasn't like him to get distracted, but this particular situation had his brain flustered with worry and made it difficult for him to focus. He'd been walking very slowly, giving the sun time to peek out from the horizon before he reached his destination. The amber color of the sky quickly brought back memories of when he, Watson, and Clara caught Jack the Ripper. Holmes groaned – he hadn't slept in approximately two days and his attention span was wavering considerably. Although, he'd never encountered such problems before – he was almost always able to force himself to concentrate.

_Who are the main suspects? _he asked himself determinedly. _Weaver, Tress, the Patels, and Blake. And what are the facts? Blake intended to steal the diamond and devised some sort of potion. Weaver attacked Clara in the alleyway for seemingly different motives. Tress – well, Tress just seemed suspicious. And lastly, the Patels. Mala was expecting. Who was the father? The father most likely had the diamond. But there was some hang up – they hadn't left. Why hadn't they left yet? _He suddenly regretting not having interviewed Mala himself – if there had been a sign, any indication or clue that Irene had missed, he would never know. If he did indeed fail to rescue Clara in time (God forbid), it would haunt him forever. But he mustn't think that way – there was still time, and he _would_ save Clara, if it was the last thing he ever did.

Three hours had passed since he read Hope's letter. No progress had been made. Holmes sat in his tattered armchair in a consuming haze of tobacco smoke. Suddenly, Watson and Irene burst through the door; both were clearly out of breath. Holmes was not surprised – in fact, he'd expected them to arrive earlier. However, Watson's expression was what caught him off guard; his face was bewildered, but he appeared to have made a new development in regard to the case.

"What've you got?" Holmes asked eagerly.

"This – just – came," Irene panted, handing Holmes a slip of paper. "The messenger said it was for you, but they brought it to the Grand because they didn't know where to find you. All it says is, 'they know,' and it's signed 'M.' Does that mean anything to you?"

"Did you recognize the messenger? Did he seem like he was in a rush?" Holmes questioned.

"I didn't recognize him, but he did seem to be in a bit of a hurry," she replied.

"It must have come from Clara…" he said, mostly to himself.

"Do you really think so?" Watson asked skeptically.

"Who else could it be from? She probably gave it to Hope, who gave it to the messenger to bring to us straight away," the detective answered. "She must have had it on her when they captured her, which means that she most likely got in from Tress. M – M must be Mala," he reasoned.

"Who are 'they'?" Watson asked.

"Well, whoever 'they' are, they know a secret of hers – and _we_ know a secret of hers, so I think it's safe to assume that we are the they…"

"And said secret is her pregnancy?" the doctor pressed.

"Yes," Holmes said simply.

"And the fact that she is informing Tress of this situation means that…"

"He is the father," Holmes finished. The trio took a moment to absorb this information, before Irene said abruptly, "Well, then, what are we waiting for? Off to see Tress!"

When they arrived at Boundary Street, Holmes didn't knock on William's door – in his opinion, the gutter rat didn't deserve such a courtesy. He entered the flat, fully prepared to tear the young man limb from limb, only to find that the room was dreadfully empty. Clothes were strewn about and cabinet doors were hanging open; clearly, someone had left in a hurry.

"Damn it!" Holmes cussed, angrily knocking a coat rack to the floor.

"Now what?" Irene asked nervously – she wasn't used to seeing Holmes upset.

"Search the room," he commanded.

*

Clara had to escape – that was a fact. How to do so, however, was a mystery. She suddenly realized something: they hadn't given her any food. Perhaps she could use that as a diversion… they had to open the door in order to give her something to eat. But she had to plan things out first; she couldn't just run out the door without knowing the next step. She had to know where she was going, for one thing. But how could she know the floor plan of the house? She couldn't see out the window very well from the angle she was at.

An idea struck her – what if she could use a pair of mirrors to look inside the windows? But she didn't have any mirrors. She looked around the room contemplatively and excitedly spotted a vanity set. She quickly took off her shoe and smashed its heel against the mirror, sending glass shards to the floor. She pocketed a particularly sharp piece, thinking it might come in handy later.

"Oi! What're you doin' in there?" a gruff voice called from behind the door.

"Nothing," Clara began nervously, "I just dropped something." She tensed up and winced in anticipation of his reply – she knew it wasn't very believable. She let out a sigh of relief when it became apparent that he wasn't going to respond.

She picked up two of the larger glass fragments and opened the window. She angled the pieces through the bars so that she could see inside the windows along the side wall of the mansion. It still wasn't fully light out, but she was able to gather a vague picture of the hallway outside her door. It wasn't extraordinarily long, probably about forty feet. At the end of the hallway was a staircase, which presumably led to the first floor. Her room was in the back of the house, so the front door was likely to be across from the staircase.

Clara took a deep breath – she was making progress – everything would be alright. Now, she had to decide how to a) lure someone into the room, and b) prevent them from standing in her way. The person guarding her room was male, which was problematic – she wouldn't be able to overpower him. She had the fleeting idea to build some sort of trap, but she immediately doubted herself – she wasn't Holmes; she couldn't fabricate some sort of bizarre contraption using only the materials in the room, could she? But she didn't need to hold the guard for long – just long enough to escape the house. Maybe she could; either way, she had to try. It was time to put her resourcefulness to the test.

Sheets – they would be useful; she hastily ripped them off of the bed. The off-white silk fabric was soft beneath her fingers as she began to adeptly knot together the sheets and pillowcases. Then, she worked at loosening one of the hinges in the doorframe in order to get peg out. She took one of her hair pins and used it as a sort of lever. Eventually, she got it free and moved a chair so that she could reach above the doorway. Once again using her shoe, she nailed the peg into the wall. It was crude, but hopefully it would do the trick. Her eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a heavy object. She settled upon a porcelain pitcher. Even though it wasn't as heavy as she had wanted, if it broke over his head it would certainly stun him. She tied the sheets through the handle of the pitcher and ran it over the peg. The pitcher was dangling over the left side of the doorway and she was on the opposite side, holding the other end of the makeshift rope. Now, came the hard part.

"Sir," she said in her weakest, most pitiful voice, "sir, I'm dreadfully starved. Would it be horribly bothersome if I were to trouble you for a bite to eat?"

"Yes, it would," the voice on the other side said stoically.

"Please, sir, I'm begging you – show some mercy. I feel dreadfully sick – I am afraid that I might pass out," she whined, "I haven't had even a mere morsel of food for nearly three days."

There was a long pause. "I'll see what I can do," he said cautiously.

_Damn, he's on to me_, Clara thought worriedly. But, she heard the reassuring tromp of footsteps going down the stairs. She flexed her fingers over the end of the sheets apprehensively. A few minutes later, she heard him climbing back up the stairs. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard him begin to fiddle with the doorknob. Her heart fluttered in anticipation and a surge of adrenaline shot through her. Slowly, the door opened. Before he could do anything, Clara released the "rope," allowing the pitcher to fall directly onto the top of his head. It didn't break, but it caused an alarming thud. He seemed dazed for a moment, but he wasn't knocked out. Clara panicked – her plan had failed. Her heart nearly stopped as she tried to figure out what to do. If she waited too long, he would yell. Out of sheer instinct, she picked the pitcher up from the ground and smashed it over his head. This time, he was out cold – she was even afraid that she might have killed him.

She dodged his motionless body to get to the end of the staircase. She ran down the stairs as if her life depended on it (forgetting the fact that it actually _did_), oblivious to the shouts directed towards her. All she could focus on was the door – no inanimate object had ever appeared so sacred. When she opened the portal, someone was in front of her; however, she pushed past him so quickly that he didn't even register what was going on. More shouts came from behind her. When the morning air hit her, she felt a surge of relief unlike anything she had ever felt before. Unfortunately, she had to forcefully remind herself that she wasn't in the clear just yet. Her eyes darted around the front yard and she spotted the buggy that the man she ran into must have gotten out of. She took out her broken mirror shard and cut the horse free. Awkwardly, she climbed atop the horse and willed it to move. It did, and after a while she succeeded in getting it to break into a gallop. However, just when she allowed herself to relax, she heard shots ring out behind her. But, there was nothing she could do; she simply clung to the horse, hoped that she was going towards London, and prayed to God that the bullets wouldn't hit her.

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**A/N: OK, so I realize that this wasn't exactly the best chapter ever, but it was necessary. I spent a lot of time describing actions, but it was really the only way I could think of to write about what's going on. So yeah, I hope no one minded too much. The next chapter will definitely have a lot more dialogue. Please review!!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter :) Your reviews keep me inspires. Here's chapter 13, I hope you enjoy it!

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**Chapter XIII**

Clara's avid pursuers ran out of ammunition fairly quickly, which was unsurprising – they had been shooting at her without pause since the beginning of their chase. After about half an hour of unrelenting flight, her poor horse began to tire. This was a major problem – the men were still following her, and, if she stopped, they would surely capture her. As the fatigued animal slowed to a walk, Clara looked behind her nervously. The men's horses must have been tired as well, because they also appeared to have slowed their pace. If she could go just a bit farther, just until they were out of sight… She dug her foot into the horse's side and urged it to go faster.

"Just a little while longer," she pleaded apologetically.

By some miracle, she eventually came across a farmhouse. She led the horse to the water trough, but it was clear that it wouldn't be able to recover its strength in a very timely manner. She spotted a barn and began to make her way towards it, hoping that no one would see her. She carefully slid open the door and was elated to find a brown and a spotted horse in their stalls. She felt rather guilty for taking one of the horses, but it was completely necessary. After tacking up the brown horse and stealing a canteen of water, she set off once more.

Another half hour into her journey, the scenery began to become more populated; this reassured her that she was, indeed, following the correct path to London. And the fact that she could no longer see her pursuers was even more comforting. When she was quite sure that they were far enough away, she allowed her horse to walk until it regained enough strength to resume its gallop. Once she had finally reached the outskirts of London, she abandoned her horse. She gave it a quick, thankful peck on the nose, and then left it in some lucky fellow's yard.

The filthy streets of London had never seemed more heavenly – Clara felt as if she had reached some sort of sanctuary. However, she knew that she wouldn't be completely safe until she reached Holmes. She was far from Baker Street, but she ran almost the entire way there (_never_ again in her life would she take a cab alone). When she burst through the holy door of 221B, the first person she saw was Mrs. Hudson.

"_What in_ _God's name_ has happened to you?!!" she sputtered in astonishment.

For the first time, Clara became aware of her horrible state of disarray: her hair was an utter disaster, she had stains and holes in her dress, grime on her face, and cuts on her hands that she didn't remember getting.

"Nothing," she panted unconvincingly, "Where's Holmes?"

Her aunt gaped at her in disbelief. "He's in his room – just got here. He was in mad rush, I wouldn't go near him, he seemed terribly out of sorts," she replied.

Before her aunt could continue to interrogate her, Clara rushed up the stairs with a speed that seemed almost unnatural. His door was open, and she watched him from the hallway for a moment. He was throwing things into a travelling bag in a crazed frenzy, and he didn't even notice her standing there.

"Holmes," she said softly, trying to garner his attention.

"Not now – " he started, but then it dawned on him. He immediately dropped the bundle of clothes in his hands and stared at Clara in amazement.

She hadn't ever seen him so surprised, and grinned somewhat sheepishly at him. Then, she ran towards him happily. His arms hung limply by his sides, and Clara threw her arms around his neck – she didn't even care anymore – she was just so relieved to see him – she couldn't help herself. She kissed him heatedly; it felt like her heart was bounding out of her chest with happiness – to see him again, to touch him again – it was extraordinary.

"What – how?" Holmes asked between kisses. She was surprised that he was responding, but she figured that he didn't even register what was going on – he was still too stunned by her sudden appearance.

"Not important," she replied breathlessly, "did you get my note?"

He nodded wordlessly in affirmation.

"Where are John and Irene?" she asked curiously, finally noticing their absence.

"Irene's packing. Watson's at the shipyard – Tress and Mala have taken off to France," he answered.

"How did you find that out?" she asked.

"I found the receipt for a ticket to Calais in his rubbish bin – the boy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, apparently. He made it all too easy for us to track him," Holmes replied.

"You're following him?" Clara asked.

"Yes, of course – but – er – I must say, I'm terribly glad to see you… We only had until tomorrow – otherwise…"

"I know," she interrupted.

"I don't know how I would have gotten back in time…" he said, looking at the floor.

After a moment he met her gaze significantly. For the first time, she could see what he was feeling in his eyes; he was horribly tormented – he had thought that she was going to die. At that instant, she was certainly glad that she had taken it upon herself to escape.

"Clara, you know I would never let you – " he started.

"Sometimes there are just things that you can't control…" she replied.

"There are people following me – Hope's men," she remembered quickly. His eyes darted worriedly towards the door.

"It's only a matter of time before they find us, then," he said.

"Yes, surely they know where we live," she agreed.

"Well, then, time to go. Pack your things as quickly as possible, we're going to Paris," he instructed.

"Why Paris? I thought you said that they were going to Calais?" she asked.

"Yes, but that is simply where the ferry stops – the natural course after that is to go to Paris. We can ask someone who works at the dock if they've seen our dear fugitives, just to be sure," he answered.

"Wait, Holmes," she started nervously as she turned to leave, "before – when I first came in – I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."

"It's perfectly alright," he said stuffily, not looking directly at her, "I understand – you were just caught up in the moment."

Clara studied his face as he stared at the wall, searching for some flicker of emotion. Deciding, after a moment, that she would find none, she left to go pack her bags.

*

Only about five minutes after she had packed her bags, Clara heard the front door open and close. She stiffened anxiously (thinking it might be Hope's men), before she heard Watson's distinctive, rhythmic shuffle. Immediately, she ran out of the room and down the stairs; she flung herself into his arms before he even knew what was going on. Startled, he pulled back to see who he was hugging; when he realized it was Clara, he continued their embrace and spun her around a couple of times in gladness.

"Clara?! What in the devil – how did you…?" he exclaimed.

"It's a long story," she began, "I'll tell you later. But we need to leave – now. Do you have the tickets?"

"Yes," he said, pulling three out of his pocket. "But I only have three, and there are four of us."

"Irene," he added when he saw Clara's confused look.

"Oh. I forgot about her," she said sourly.

"Holmes," she called from the bottom of the stairs, "John's here and he's got the tickets. The problem is, he only has three." Watson smiled inwardly at how her immediate response to an issue was to consult Holmes; he knew that deep down Holmes found her reliance on him rather endearing.

"That is, indeed, a problem," he said thoughfully, walking from his room to the top of the staircase. "I know – I'll telegraph Irene and tell her to take the next ferry from Dover. We _are_ leaving from Dover, Watson, aren't we?"

"Yes, in three and a half hours, which means that we have to leave _now,_" his friend answered.

"But why leave Irene behind, out of all of us?" Clara asked – Watson could tell that she was subtly fishing for some sort of sign of fondness from Holmes.

"Well, you're in the most danger out of all of us – obviously, I must go – and we need the good Dr. Watson by our side. It always is useful to have a doctor along," he answered logically.

She seemed rather deflated by his response, but nodded her head in comprehension.

*

The trio took a fairly long cab ride from London to Dover, during which Clara held on nervously to the sleeve of Holmes' jacket; she was still traumatized by her previous experiences. Watson watched the pair smugly, causing Holmes to be wary of her advances. Although, however callous he was, he couldn't help but admit that he had been quite worried about her and that it was a great relief to have her back. Plus, he knew that she was most likely in a very fragile mental state and therefore allowed himself to tolerate her affections.

However, his thoughts soon went to Irene; she was likely to be exceedingly angry, but he would worry about that later. Honestly, what did she expect him to do? Leave Clara there? The very idea was unthinkable – especially with those men following her. No, he did the right thing. But, knowing Irene, she would take this as a personal affront – to her, it was simply him choosing Clara over her. Ah well, maybe she would learn not to get herself into trouble next time.

When the cab reached Dover, Clara, Holmes, and Watson hurried over to the ferry. Luckily, they made it just before the ship lifted anchor. Now, it was only a matter of hours before they reached France. But, the real question was, how would they find William and Mala once they got there? If Holmes were Tress, the first thing he would do was trade in the diamond for cash. However, if he took the necklace to a respectable jeweler, there would be a lot curiosity – it was too risky. He needed to find a pawn shop – somewhere where they wouldn't ask questions. But, there were probably hundreds in Paris – how would he find the correct one? He would need to find out where they were staying – it would be the closest one. How would he do that?

Again, he put himself in Tress's place – William was on the run, he most likely wanted to have access to a quick escape. He was probably staying near a train station in a low cost inn – unless he'd already sold the diamond. That would be a different story entirely. If he'd already sold the diamond, he was probably staying at the best hotel in Paris. That was where they would look first, since it was widely known that the Hôtel de Crillon was the nicest hotel in the city.

When they reached Calais, Clara asked, "How are we going to find them?"

Holmes smirked – he was already a few steps ahead of her. "We'll look first as the Hôtel de Crillon – it's the nicest hotel in Paris," he replied.

"Why would they be there?" she questioned confusedly.

"Because," he explained, "It is probable that Tress has already cashed in the diamond – that way he will be able to make small purchases as well as large ones. Simple-minded people always allow money to go to their heads – he would be so overwhelmed with his newfound wealth that he would immediately purchase a suite in the most famous and luxurious hotel in Paris, which just happens to be the Hôtel de Crillon."

"But we don't want Tress, we just want the diamond," Watson reasoned.

"Yes," the detective started, "But how many pawn shops do you think there are in Paris – hundreds! This is why we need to find Tress first, so that he can tell us to whom he sold the necklace." And so, the three friends boarded an omnibus bound for Paris.

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**A/N: OK so I hope you all liked this chapter. To be honest, I'm having a hard time transitioning Holmes into caring about Clara in a romantic sort of way... Does anyone have any advice? Do you think I'm doing an alright job so far? Please review and tell me your thoughts! :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY!!! I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated sooner - my computer was broken! There was nothing I could do, I hope you'll forgive me :( Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and I hope you will all like this one. Again, I am SO sorry.  


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**Chapter XIV**

This was the first time that Clara had ever left Britain, which was apparent from the way she was gaping at the Parisian scenery.

"Es-tu impressionnée?" _(Are you impressed?) _Holmes teased when he saw her fascinated expression. Her face was practically pressed against the glass of the carriage window. She turned away from the view and scowled at him in response.

"Good God, Holmes. If you speak French the entire time, I swear…" Watson complained.

"Tu jures quoi?" _(You swear what?) _Holmes asked innocently with a small grin. Clara couldn't help but smile slightly at how blatantly he took joy in aggravating the poor doctor. Watson shook his head futilely, not willing to humor him with a reply.

"Can't you speak French, John?" Clara teased mildly.

"No, I cannot – not very well, at least – and Holmes never hesitates to take advantage of that fact," he answered irritably.

"Perhaps you should learn. Then, I wouldn't have anything to take advantage of," Holmes suggested.

"I'm sure you will always be able to find _something_," his friend replied, glaring at him. Holmes smirked mischievously. Clara's heart ached at the sight of it – that smirk was truly the epitome of his personality. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to admit her feelings to him – but she knew that that wouldn't go over well. However, she also knew that she ought to make the best of her situation – Irene wasn't there, and Holmes had a soft spot for her at the moment because of the ordeal she'd just gone through.

"So," she interrupted, hoping to shake off the sentiment, "We're going to the Hôtel de Crillon?"

"Yes," Holmes said, looking out the window distractedly. He seemed rather uncomfortable, for some reason. Perhaps it was because Clara's entire being was radiating with suppressed emotion; they were so in tune that he could actually sense what she was feeling. She wouldn't be surprised if this was the case.

However, just as he answered, she looked out the window to see an elaborate sign reading "Hôtel de Crillon" in scrawled letters; they had arrived.

They stepped out of the carriage and Watson helped her down as Holmes paid the faire. For some reason, she suddenly felt nervous; they were reaching the end of the case – she could feel it. What would it mean when they were finished? What would happen? Would Irene stay? Clara hoped she wouldn't – things would be so different if she stayed. But, she shouldn't plan for that just yet – they still had to find Tress, and even then it wasn't absolutely certain that he would, indeed, have the diamond. Holmes briskly walked to the front door of the hotel with an air of complete confidence. She and Watson followed him hesitantly. Once inside the hotel, he sashayed over to the front desk of the lobby.

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, mais j'ai une question. Est-ce qu'il y a un homme qui s'appelle William Tress au cet hôtel ?" _(Pardon me, sir, but I have a question. Is there a man by the name of William Tress at this hotel?) _he asked fluently.

"Je ne peux pas vous donner cette information," _(I can't give you that information) _the man said disinterestedly. The man didn't even bother to look at him.

_God, I hate the French_, Holmes thought to himself.

"S'il vous plaît, c'est une question de vie ou de mort," _(Please, it's a matter of life or death) _he insisted.

"Monsieur, je ne veux pas d'avoir vous expulsé," _(Sir, I don't want to have you thrown out) _the man said, finally looking at Holmes. He could have sworn he heard him mutter "anglais," disparagingly under his breath. Holmes bit his lip in frustration, clearly trying to keep his temper in check.

"Merci," _(Thank you) _he said insincerely, turning away to walk back towards Clara and Watson. "He won't tell me whether or not they're here," he told them. Both he and Watson looked at Clara expectantly.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, already knowing what they wanted. "Oh, fine," she said, defeated. She smoothed out the front of her dress and adjusted her hair before gliding over to the front desk.

"Bonjour, monsieur," she began, batting her eyelashes, "Je me suis demandée – est-ce qu'il y a un homme qui s'appelle William Tress au cet hôtel?" _(Hello, sir. I was wondering – is there a man by the name of William Tress at this hotel ?)_

"Cet homme-là juste m'a posé la même question, et je l'ai dit que je n'ai pas la permission de révéler que des informations," _(That man there just asked me the same question, and I said that I'm not permitted to divulge such information) _he replied. However, Clara noticed that he was less terse with her than he was with Holmes.

"Oui, je sais, mais c'est une affaire de grave importance," _(Yes, I know, but it's a matter of great importance) _she pleaded.

"Je voudrais savoir, qu'est-ce que ce cette 'affaire de grave importance' ?" _(I would like to know, what is this 'matter of great importance' ?) _he questioned curiously.

Clara bit her lip conspiratorially and looked back at Holmes and Watson as if to ensure that they could not hear her.

"Voyez-vous les hommes-là ?" she began, motioning to Holmes and Watson, " Je suis leur captive. S'ils ne trouveront pas M. Tress, ils me tueront !" _(Do you see those men there? I'm their captive. If they don't find Mr. Tress, they will kill me!) _she explained.

The man's mask of boredom was quickly replaced with one of concern.

"Mais, vous ne pouvez pas dire à personne," _(But, you mustn't tell anyone)_ she added hastily. When he looked up at her, she tried to make her face appear distraught and innocent – she needed his pity.

His eyes darted around shiftily, presumably to make sure that none of his superiors were around.

"D'accord, je vous aiderai. Un moment," _(Alright, I'll help you. One moment) _he said, walking into a backroom.

When he came back, he appeared to be disappointed. "Je suis désolé, mademoiselle, mais il n'est pas ici," he said. _(I'm sorry, miss, but he's not here)_

Clara looked at him blankly. No, that couldn't be right – Holmes had said that he would be here – he was never wrong. "Vous êtes sûre?" _(You're sure?) _she pressed. Suddenly, a notion flashed through her mind, and she felt very clever for having thought of it. "Puis-vous vérifier s'il y a un William Weaver?" _(Could you check to see if there is a William Weaver?) _she asked hopefully.

He left once again. When he returned, his expression was one of triumph.

"Oui, mademoiselle, il y a un William Weaver. Il est en chambre 390,"_ (Yes, miss, there is a William Weaver. He is in room 390) _he said.

"Merci beaucoup," Clara said brightly, immediately turning to run towards Holmes and Watson.

"He's in room 390," she said excitedly as soon as she reached them.

"How did you find that out?" Watson asked curiously.

"He's staying under the name William Weaver," she replied.

"How clever of him," Holmes remarked sarcastically.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" his friend interjected, "Let's go."

"Excellent suggestion, old boy," he agreed.

With that, the three of them made their way up to the third floor. Clara was the first to reach the door of room 390, but she hesitated before knocking.

"What's the matter?" Holmes asked impatiently.

"We're just going to barge in?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, why not?" he questioned.

"It just seems unorthodox, is all," she replied, shrugging, before daintily knocking on the door and blocking the peephole with her thumb. "Housekeeping," she added at the spur of the moment.

A rustling on the other side of the door signified that the room was, indeed, inhabited. A rush of adrenaline shot through her in anticipation. After what seemed like ages, she heard a lock unhinge and the painfully slow twist of a doorknob. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Holmes and Watson turn rigid, readying themselves for action. As soon as a crack of light shone through the doorway, the pair sprung with the speed and ferocity of a pair of wolves. A woman screamed – Mala, most likely. Once Clara was able to see their poor victim, she recognized William Tress.

"How on earth did you find me?!" he grit out once they successfully and stably pinned him against the wall. However, his question was barely audible over the hysterical chatter of his distressed companion. Clara took it upon herself to lead Mala into a chair and attempt to calm her down.

"There, there, they're not going to harm him," she assured her.

"Honestly, Tress," Holmes started, "How we found you is unimportant. If you cooperate, I won't even turn you in to the authorities, so listen closely: from the looks of it, you've already pawned the diamond. Where did you sell it?"

"Er – somewhere near Rue de Faubourg," he sputtered.

"Alright, you're leading us there. Let's go," Holmes said, forcing him towards the door.

"Come along," Clara said coolly to Mala. She pitied her, but she certainly couldn't be kind to her. But the poor girl was so foolish – she had no idea that Tress couldn't care less about her. It was an awful feeling, knowing how unfaithful he was to her but not being able to do anything about it. _She _had even been one of the women he cheated with, which made it even more awkward.

As they were walking down the road, Tress said, "So, Clara, you're alright. I'm glad to see that."

She smirked slightly, knowing that he was trying to manipulate her "feelings" for him – little did he know, they were inexistent.

"Don't speak, just walk," Watson grunted.

Clara would never cease to be amazed by Holmes' deductive abilities – she'd said before that he was almost inhuman in an emotional sense. However, she'd never thought how appropriate it was in an intellectual sense as well. The pawn shop was, just as he predicted, in a rundown shack near the train station. As they neared the entrance, Clara hoped with all her heart that the diamond would be there. She wanted nothing more than to be safe – to not have Hope's men pursue her – and the only way for that to happen was to retrieve the diamond.

"How long ago did you sell it?" she asked abruptly.

"Only a day ago. I can't imagine that it wouldn't be here," Tress answered.

Surprisingly, throughout this whole ordeal, Mala was silent – eerily silent.

"You're going to have to buy it back, you know. I would give you the money, but we've already spent it," Tress sniveled.

"Oh, I'm sure with the aid of my proficient persuasive skills he and I will be able to come to some sort of diplomatic agreement that doesn't involve fiscal depletion," Holmes replied smoothly.

Clara bit back an admirative smile as she watched the wheels turn in Tress's head – clearly he was having a difficult time deciphering the meaning of Holmes' words.

Once inside, the group caught their first glance of the salesclerk. He was a short, fat man with thick gray muttonchops. Yes, Holmes would have no problem "persuading" him, if the need arose.

"Bonjour," Holmes began, motioning to Clara,"Avez-vous des bijoux? Je voudrais acheter un collier pour ma fiancée." _(Hello, do you have any jewelry? I would like to buy a necklace for my fiancée.)

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**A/N: I hope all the French is right... feel free to correct me if it's not. Please review!**_  
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	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: SORRY! Honestly, I don't have much of an excuse for the tardiness of this one other than the fact that so many things have been going on in my personal life. I swear, I'm not losing my inspiration or anything, I just haven't had any time! Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I can't tell you how much I appreciate reviews. They are what keeps me going. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It sure is an eventful one.  


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**Chapter XV**

_Recap :_

"_Bonjour," Holmes began, motioning to Clara,"Avez-vous des bijoux ? Je voudrais acheter un collier pour ma fiancée." __(Hello, do you have any jewelry? I would like to buy a necklace for my fiancée.)_

"Oui, j'ai beaucoup de bijoux. Quel style est-ce que vous aimeriez?" _(Yes, I have a lot of jewelry. What style would you like?) _the jeweler asked.

"Oh, ça ne fait rien – je veux seulement un diamant – un grand diamant. Rien que le meilleur pour ma chère Claire," _(Oh, it doesn't matter – I only want a diamond – a big diamond. __Nothing but the best for my dear Claire) _he answered with a sickeningly but convincingly loving voice. Clara tightened her grip on his arm and gazed back at him amorously. He seemed rather put off by this, but her eyes flashed with the silent insistence that it was merely for the sake of the case. After the wordless understanding, he resumed his ruse.

"Mais," _(But) _Holmes added beckoning to Tress, "Cet homme là, il m'a dit qu'il a vous vendu un très grand diamant. Je l'aimerais acheter." _(That man there, he told me that he sold you a very large diamond. I would like to buy it)._

The man suddenly looked a bit nervous and disappointed. "Je vois," _(I see) _he said, "Mais, il y a un petit problème. Ce diamant était volé juste après il me l'a vendu. C'était un incident très bizarre, et mon frère, Jacques, est en train de chercher pour les coupables pendant que nous nous parlons." _(But, there is a little problem. That diamond was stolen just after he sold it to me. It was a very strange occurrence, and my brother, Jacques, is searching for the culprits as we speak.)_

"C'est très curieux," _(That's very curious) _Holmes agreed. "De quoi est-ce qu'ils ressemblaient ?" _(What did they look like?)_

"Je ne sais pas. Je n'étais pas là – Ils l'ont volé de mon frère," _(I don't know. __I wasn't here – they stole it from my brother) _he answered.

"Je vois," Holmes began, "Et quand es-ce que votre frère retourner?" _(I see. And when does your brother return?)_

"Je ne sais pas, ce dépend s'il trouve le diamant, je suppose. Mais, ce n'est pas un grand-chose… j'ai les autres diamants…" _(I don't know, it depends if he finds the diamond, I suppose. But, it's not a big deal… I have other diamonds…) _the jeweler insisted.

"Non, ça fait bien. Nous retournerons ce soir," _(No, it's alright. __We will return this evening) _the detective said abruptly. With that, he gripped Clara's upper arm gently and led her out of the store. Watson followed close behind, a preventative hand firmly placed on Tress's shoulder.

"Do you care to explain what just happened?" Watson snapped impatiently once they were back on the road towards the Hôtel de Crillon.

"Well I was pretending that Clara was my fiancée –" Holmes began.

"I got that part," Watson interjected.

"If you would let me finish," Holmes said, casting Watson a warning glance. His friend put his hands up in mock surrender. "Thank you. Now, as I was saying, I was pretending that Clara was my fiancée and that I wanted to buy her a diamond necklace. I told the salesclerk that our good friend Tress informed us of a rather large and valuable diamond that he had sold to the man. I asked to buy said diamond, but he said it had been stolen just after Tress sold it to him."

"That's odd," Watson said, "And _extremely_ inconvenient. Now what do we do?"

"He couldn't give me a description of the thieves because his brother, Jacques, was manning the store at the time. I suppose we wait for his brother to return and then go back to question him," Holmes reasoned.

"Where is his brother now?" Watson asked.

"He's looking for the burglars," Clara answered.

A silence fell over the party for a moment, before Clara asked, motioning to Tress and Mala, "What are we to do with them?"

"We'll keep an eye on them until later this evening, when we will check back in with the pawnbroker. We shouldn't take them with us, to minimize the risk of their escaping. Watson, old fellow, do you think you can handle the both of them on your own?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, of course," he answered as if it was preposterous that he wouldn't be able to.

"But wait a moment. Won't Irene be arriving soon? And Hope's men?" Clara questioned nervously.

"I nearly forgot about Irene… She's a smart girl, she'll figure out where to go. Plus, she will undoubtedly be staying at the nicest hotel in the city. Chances are we will run into her without even trying. And as for Hope's men, as long as you're with either me or Watson, you've nothing to worry about," he assured her.

She looked at him carefully but seemed to be placated by his answer, nodding her head in agreement. If he wanted to feel protective of her, she sure wasn't going to stop him; in her mind, it was the closest she was going to come to him actually having feelings for her.

Clara and Holmes had left Watson, Tress, and Mala in a large, cushy suite, courtesy of Tress's newly acquired financial means. The room was as lavish as could be imagined, and the scene of stiff, straight-laced Watson, sinking into a plethora of frilly cushions and pillows, intently watching a pair of leering criminals with their wrists cuffed to the bedposts of a large mahogany canopy bed, was certainly a comical one. However, this didn't seem to lighten Clara's mood in the least. Throughout their journey, she was particularly on-edge – more so than usual. Maybe it was something in the inky city streets that brought back unpleasant memories.

Whatever the cause of her trepidation, she stayed close to Holmes. Normally, he would have considered her proximity a nuisance, but in this particular instance he could understand her rationale; to her, he was synonymous with safety. Although, he couldn't help but notice a tinge of unbridled affection in her touch – she wasn't simply staying by him for the sake of her own security. But, he let it go. There were more important matters at hand. The entered the pawnbroker's, immediately resuming their façades from earlier in the day when they crossed the threshold.

"Bonjour, mon bon homme, ton frère, est-il déjà arrivé?" _(Hello, my good fellow, has your brother arrived yet?)_ he asked.

"Oui, mais je ne comprends pas pourquoi vous voulez parler avec mon frère. J'ai les autre diamants – pourquoi êtes-vous si préoccupé avec celui en particulier?" _(Yes, but I don't understand why you want to talk to my brother. I have other diamonds – why are you so preoccupied with this one in particular?) _the vendor asked.

"Voulez-vous à savoir le vérité? Ce diamant, c'était de ma mère. L'homme qui j'avais avec avant l'a volé. Mais, je ne veux pas les conflits je voudrais simplement acheter le diamant pour ma fiancée. Ma mère, la bénir, elle aurait voulu l'avoir," _(You want to know the truth? __The diamond was my mother's. The man who I was with earlier stole it. But, I don't want any trouble; I only want to buy the diamond for my fiancée. My mother, bless her, would have wanted her to have it) _he said, clasping Clara's hand tenderly. The whole speech was rather convincing, and Clara even managed to generate a few tears to enhance the story's authenticity. The man bought the lie without a second thought.

"Jacques!" he called into the back room. He then offered the heartrending couple before him a pitying nod.

"We're good," Holmes breathed slyly into her ear without the salesclerk noticing. His manner of speech could almost be mistaken as seductive. She tightened her grip on his arm and said, "Tell me about it," in an equally hushed tone.

After a moment, Jacques came forward. Clara's first impression of him was that he looked nothing like his brother. He was about a decade younger, a stone heavier, and a foot taller. All in all, he created a much more formidable image – she had to give the thieves some credit for mustering the courage to cross him.

"Vous êtes Jacques?" _(You are Jacques?) _Holmes asked.

"Oui, qui veut savoir?" _(Yes, who wants to know?) _the hulking man replied.

"Je m'appelle Pierre Lerouge et elle, elle est ma fiancée, Claire," _(I'm Pierre Lerouge and she is my fiancée, Claire) _he answered. To Clara, the names sounded awfully familiar; after a while she recognized them as the names they used at the gypsy camp while looking for Flora. That seemed like a terribly long time ago.

"Et quoi est-ce que vous voulez?" _(And what do you want?) _he countered.

"Ton frère m'a dit que des voleurs a volé un diamant de vous. Ce diamant était un objet de famille et je veux le trouver," _(Your brother told me that some robbers stole a diamond from you. __That diamond was a family heirloom and I would like to find it) _he replied.

"Je vois," _(I see)_ Jacques said simply.

"Qu'est-ce que les voleurs ont ressemblé?" _(What did the robbers look like?) _Holmes asked.

"Ils étaient une groupe bizarre. C'était deux jeunes filles et un homme. Je n'a peux pas voir leurs visages parce qu'ils portaient les masques," _(They were a strange group. __There were two young women and one man. I couldn't see their faces because they wore masks) _he answered.

"Merci," _(Thank you)_ Holmes said quickly, not needing to know any more.

Once they had left the building, Clara said, "It's the Patels?"

"I believe so," he replied.

"How did they manage to pull that off?" she asked curiously.

"Does it really matter? All we need to know is that they are in possession of the diamond," he answered.

"True," she remarked, "Where do you think they are?"

"Most likely on their way to India. If they stole the diamond, I have a hunch that they want to return it to its original home. We're probably about a day or two behind them, but we know their destination. As long as we get there, we should be able to track them down. But we can't set off before we meet up with Irene," he said.

"So now we're going to India?" she asked.

"It appears so," he answered intolerantly.

"Well, that didn't take long to figure out," she noted, trying to create some sort of pleasant conversation.

"No, it didn't," he agreed. They stood facing each other somewhat awkwardly.

"So… would you like to get something to eat or anything?" she asked.

"Well," he started tentatively, "we probably should be getting back to Watson…"

"I thought you said he could handle them himself," she reminded him.

"Yes… I suppose it wouldn't hurt…" he finally conceded.

And so, they found themselves a nice restaurant and sat down to their meal. She noticed soon into the dinner that he was hesitant to make eye contact with her, and whenever he spoke to her he wouldn't look at her directly; instead, his gaze traveled sporadically around the room.

"Holmes," she finally stated impatiently, "why won't you look at me?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked innocently.

"Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing," she scolded, resting her chin in her hand and looking at him with a fixed expression. "Why do you so suddenly loathe me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't loathe you," he said, their eyes locking at last.

"Well, it sure seems like you do. You act as if every word I say to you is wearisome," she said firmly. "You know I care about you…"

"I refuse to go into this with you again," he interrupted, tossing his napkin on the table.

"Don't give me that – I'm not saying I want you _love _me or anything, I just want you to be civil! You said before that you just wanted things to go back to normal, but now _you're _the one acting strange," she said exasperatedly.

"I am _not_ acting strange," he asserted, raising his chin insolently.

"Yes you are! When I touch you, you act like I'm burning you. When I speak to you, you act like I'm an annoying gnat. And then other times you act as if you care about me and we're good friends – like in the pawnbroker's. I can't endure your mood swings anymore! I thought women were supposed to be the emotionally unstable ones!" she exclaimed. However, she tried to keep her voice low – she didn't want to cause a scene.

"How dare you insinuate that I am emotionally unstable," he said, his dark eyes flashing with true anger. "I think it's time for us to go," he said crossly, throwing some money down on the table and standing abruptly. Clara immediately stood as well, not wanting him to think that he intimidated her. Together, they stormed out of the building, hardly breaking eye contact. Both were quite angry.

They walked down the street side-by-side, each stewing silently. Finally, Clara said furiously, "You know, I don't even know why I cared for you in the first place. All you've given me is misery and frustration. I should have just stuck with John. He's a lot more consistent, at least."

Holmes stopped mid-stride and turned to look at her. "What do you want, hmm?" he asked heatedly. "Is this what you want?" Suddenly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly but forcefully.

Clara's head reeled with surprise when they pulled apart, and all she managed to say was, "Well, yes actually." And with that, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him much more tenderly than he had kissed her. He did respond, but it didn't seem to be by his own consent. When the kiss was over, he stared unfocusedly over the top of her head and said, "Let's just go back." He needed a drink.

The remainder of their walk was passed in complete silence. The night had been more than eventful enough for the both of them. When they opened the door to the hotel room, neither could have predicted the sight before them – it rendered them utterly speechless.

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**A/N: Ohhh cliff hanger... Please review! This chapter's a little different than some of the others, so I would love some feedback. Thank you for reading :) Also, you should go read **.S Y N T H E T I Cperfection.**'s story, _Season of the Witch_. It's very good!**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Chapter 16! I can't believe it - this story has gotten so long already... I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

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**Chapter XVI**

To say that the scene before them was horrific, bizarre, and surreal would be a bit of an understatement. For a moment, what had happened eluded even the great Sherlock Holmes. But _only_ for a moment. The first odd thing was that no one in the room was conscious, and it was unclear as to whether or not everyone was even _alive_. The second odd thing was that the room was in complete shambles. The furniture was beyond destroyed, and broken glass covered the floor of the room like some sort of ghastly mosaic. There was blood, but at first it was difficult to decipher to whom it belonged. There was a trail of it leading to the door. A thin, broken crimson path ran down the hallway. Why hadn't he noticed it before? Clara. She'd distracted him. But there was more blood in the room. The majority of it had formed a sticky pool beneath the bed, in the shadows; upon further inspection, it became apparent that it belonged to Mala and Tress.

But honestly, Clara and Holmes didn't care much about Tress and Mala. They cared about Watson, who was lying on the sofa with a bottle of absinthe loosely clutched in his hand. The feathers from the defiled pillows were beneath him, which signified that he had gone to the sofa _after _it had been ruined. Quickly, Holmes went to him and checked his pulse – he was alive, thank heavens. But something was terribly wrong. Watson didn't usually drink, and it was extremely bizarre that he would have been drinking _absinthe_ of all things. A gin and tonic perhaps, but that was about as adventurous as he got. Something had set him off – he had been driven to it, which meant that something very bad had happened.

"Is he hurt?" Clara's voice rang out shrilly against the deafening silence that had previously filled the suite. She couldn't believe what was happening. It didn't seem real – it was too strange. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to wake up from some twisted nightmare. Nothing happened.

Holmes inspected his friend with complete deliberation; his dark eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. A few scratches and bruises, but nothing major. "No, not physically," he answered.

"Thank God," she sighed in relief. "Wait, what do you mean 'not physically'?"

"Well, obviously something happened that caused him to drink almost half a bottle of absinthe. Something that I don't think bodes well for his emotional state," he replied.

Clara stayed silent for a moment, absorbing what Holmes had said. "What about them?" she asked solemnly, motioning to Tress and Mala's limp forms. Slowly, Holmes crouched beside Tress and noticed a small gunshot wound in the temple of his beautiful blond head– it was at point-blank range.

"He's dead," he announced gruffly. He rose and went to check Mala's pulse, but soon found it unnecessary. She had large gunshot wound in the center of her chest. The same gun hadn't killed them both. "So is she," he said.

Clara crumbled to the floor, her knees buckling beneath her. She brought a shaking hand to her mouth and stared into nothingness. Tress was dead. How very strange. A mere day ago she had been kissing him, and now he was dead. She _knew _him – she'd spent time with him, spoken to him. He was very real. She cried. Not because the extinguishment of his being was some great spiritual loss from the world, not even because she had liked him, but because he was a person and she had known him. Holmes sighed deeply and sat beside her.

"Tress was killed at point-blank range," he told her.

Clara's eyes immediately darted to Watson. "You don't think…"

"I don't know," he finished. "Absinthe… it can make people do things… things they wouldn't normally do. Especially if they're not used to it. It isn't just a normal drink – it affects the mind in ways that are difficult to describe. It's not quite like being drunk. The bullet is from Watson's revolver."

Clara shook her head wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. "He didn't do it…" she whispered more to herself than to Holmes.

"I hope you're right," he replied. "But the fact of the matter is, someone was here. That's indisputable."

"Hope's men?"

"Perhaps. Probably. They're the ones who killed Mala."

"On purpose?"

"It's difficult to say. We need to wait for Watson to wake up to know the full story."

Keeping her focus on the wall, Clara scooted closer to Holmes. He put his arm around her comfortingly, and together they waited for morning.

It was noon before Watson stirred; a dull sunlight seeped into the room through heavy curtains, elucidating the sullied chamber. Holmes could easily deduce by the amount of alcohol that had been consumed that his dear friend was going to have a dreadful hangover, so they had to be sure not to upset him.

"Clara," he whispered, gently shaking her awake; she looked at him blearily. "Why don't you go wake Watson – he'll probably respond better to you than he will to me." Holmes remembered the last time he'd interfered with a hung-over Watson – it had garnered him a black eye.

She nodded silently and obeyed. Crouching beside his prone form, she carefully pried the fancy bottle of emerald liquid from his hand. "John," she whispered sweetly, nudging him ever so gently.

He let out a long groan and covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Mary?" he rasped. Immediately, Clara looked at Holmes in panic and he blinked twice slowly in realization. Suddenly, everything made sense. Hope's men had come in and somehow murdered Mala. She was with child, and she died. Watson couldn't save her. The whole ordeal must have reminded him of Mary. Holmes knew that his dear friend had coped with his beloved's death much too well. He'd shut away his feelings – this was bound to happen at some point, and it was a fact that Holmes hadn't wanted to face. Poor Watson had finally broken down, and at a most inopportune moment, too. Well, that explained the absinthe, at least. Now, the only mystery left to be solved was that of Tress's death.

"No, dear, it's me, Clara," she said softly.

He seemed to come to some sort of realization, and sat up sharply. However, he quickly regretted it and, luckily, Holmes was able to shove an ice bucket in front of him just in time. Clara winced and looked away as Watson emptied the contents of his stomach, purging his body of the hateful alcohol he had ingested.

"It'll make him feel better in the long run," Holmes assured her seriously.

When his violent retching had ceased, he brought his knees to his chest and put his hands to his temples tiredly. Clara bit her lip and looked back at Holmes for support. She wanted to ask Watson what had happened, but she also wanted to give him the much-needed opportunity to regroup.

"John," she prodded slowly, "do you have any idea what went on here?"

He unclenched his eyelids and allowed his gaze to travel around the room for the first time. His bloodshot blue eyes immediately settled on the carmine pool of Tress and Mala's mingled blood. The events of the night seemed to flood back to him all at once, and Holmes came over to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"I saw her," he scraped out. "Mary, that is," he clarified, staring into some sort of unseen abyss.

"No, you didn't," Holmes insisted, "That was just the absinthe. The green devil was playing tricks on your mind." He had to be firm with his friend – he needed him to give him a source of strength.

"It was so real," he continued, not really acknowledging Holmes' comment.

"What happened to them?" Clara asked, beckoning to Tress and Mala. He finally broke his unfocused stare and looked at her.

"Hope's minions," he spat resentfully. "They were looking for _you_, you know." Again, she cast a frightful glance back at Holmes. He had to admit, it was a _tad _bit endearing how she trusted him so unconditionally. His personality truly did evoke odd reactions from people – he was either like or hated, there was no in-between.

"Why did they shoot Mala?" she questioned.

"Her back was turned. I gather they thought she was you. Stupid twits – I suppose they didn't bother to think twice as to why you would be handcuffed by your protectors," he growled.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Shot one of them in the arm. Didn't kill him, unfortunately. Tress helped me – you know, even though he was a lousy fellow, he wasn't malicious – not like these men, anyway. They would have just shot you dead in cold blood," he grit out.

"How many of them were there?" Clara asked nervously.

"Three," he said shortly.

"How badly did you injure them?" Holmes asked mechanically. He was already calculating the threat they posed.

"Pretty badly; they left quickly when they realized they'd shot the wrong girl," he replied stoically.

"I don't understand, though," she said, "Why didn't anyone hear the commotion? From the looks of it, you made quite the racket."

"They did, and the hotel manager came to the door. I told him everything was fine and that I'd accidentally fired my gun while cleaning it. I think he believed it, but only because I didn't let him see inside the room," Watson answered peevishly.

"Um, John," she started delicately after a moment, "What – uh – what exactly happened to Tress?"

He looked at her blankly and slowly let his eyes roam to Tress's body. He buried his face in his hands and said, "It's my fault."

Clara's heart sank. She couldn't understand why he would do such a thing. However, Holmes was still listening to him intently, waiting for him to continue. In his mind, the phrases "it's my fault," and "I did it," were very different.

"You didn't…" she started.

"No, I didn't kill him. Not directly, at least." His voice was rasping up again, and they could tell that the story was reaching a difficult point. Clara bit her lip and her eyes darted between Watson and Holmes. She wanted to ask Watson to continue, but she could tell that he was struggling with something.

"He loved her, you know," he said after a moment, letting out a humorless laugh. "You wouldn't expect it, but he did. It surprised me. He had many flaws, I imagine, but he was truly in love with her. He begged me – he threw himself at my feet, begging me to save her. But I couldn't, I tried my hardest, but I couldn't. It was like Mary all over again. It was like watching myself. He said that he couldn't take the pain and he picked up my revolver. I didn't do anything to stop him, I just watched. Some part of me thought that maybe it would be better this way – that they would be together – the same part of me that wishes I'd done the same. But it's too late for that now. He was faced with two paths, and he took the one that I didn't."

Clara's eyes welled with fresh tears at his sad tale. So much pain – and it could have all been avoided if Hope's brainless henchmen hadn't made such a stupid miscalculation. An intense sense of hatred unlike anything she had experienced before coursed through her veins. She could feel her face grow hot with anger, and it must have shown because Holmes said, "Don't even think about it, Clara."

"What?" she asked, snapping her head to face him.

"We're not out for revenge," he explained. "Hope's myrmidons will get their comeuppance, but that is not our primary focus. We need to remember our original intentions – to find the diamond. Time is of the essence." All of a sudden, Holmes picked up Watson's revolver and shot at the wall for no apparent reason.

"What in the devil are you doing?" Clara hissed incredulously, clamping her hands over her ears. Watson remained unflinchingly silent throughout the exchange.

"Just wait," he said simply.

A few minutes later, as if on cue, Irene Adler sashayed through the doorway. However, she stopped dead in her tracks upon witnessing the horrifically disorderly sight before her.

"_What_ in the name of all that is holy has happened here?" she exclaimed, skipping her usual witty entrance comment.

"How did you know…?" Clara choked out, looking at Holmes in amazement.

"Vultures are always drawn to the sound of death," he said caustically, not making eye contact with anyone.

"Yes," she started, unfazed, "And so are the _police_, who I'm sure are on their way. Everyone in the lobby heard your gunshot, so I suggest you all start packing immediately. We can't stay here."

"We were just leaving, anyway. You were the last of the baggage that we needed to collect," Holmes said.

"Why so snappy today, _darling_?" she asked patronizingly.

"Holmes, this is hardly the time for a battle of wits," she hissed in his ear, glancing back meaningfully at an emotionless-looking Watson. He seemed to understand and nodded curtly, as if in an attempt to apologize.

"Come on, everyone," he announced, "We're heading to India."

"India?" Irene asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, India, is that alright with you? The Patels have the diamond and that's where they're going," he replied.

"All this trouble, just for a mere trinket," Clara muttered to herself, "And now blood has been spilt for the wretched thing. I'd rather just pay for it and be done."

She glanced over her shoulder to see Watson stumbling along behind them. He looked awful – his face was clammy and chalk-white and he had dark bags under his eyes. She wanted nothing more than to have him rest and help him recuperate, but she knew that they had to keep moving. Luckily, the hotel room had been paid for under Tress's alias, but they still needed to be careful that they couldn't be traced back to the area. The "crime scene," as it were, would surely cause quite the stir in the Parisian press.

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**A/N: Please review! Your opinion is greatly appreciated! :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I'm so glad that people enjoyed it, I tried to be a little more sophisticated with my writing and I was worried about how it would turn out. I hope you all like this one! :)

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**Chapter XVII**

"You know," Clara began, "it's such a shame that we have to leave France so soon. I hardly got to see anything."

"We could always come back another time," Holmes reasoned.

"Really?" she asked hopefully. "Oh, I would love that. I want to see Paris so badly."

"It's really nothing special," Watson said bitterly; Holmes nodded his head in consensus.

"Oh, they're letting their patriotic spirit impair their judgment – Paris is a wonderful city, nicer than London, really," Irene said.

"I don't know if I would go _that_ far," Clara countered somewhat defensively. Irene simply shrugged in response.

As they made their way to the shipyard, Clara wondered what they would do if and when they actually obtained the diamond. It was difficult to envision things simply going back to normal – it was as if they'd all been through too much together. Poor Watson would be forever haunted by his deceased wife's memory, and Holmes… well, maybe Holmes would go back to normal – nothing ever seemed to affect him. However, Clara surely wouldn't. She'd been kidnapped and faced death (for real, this time – when she was up against Flora, she wasn't conscious so she couldn't count that experience). But, more importantly, she had realized her true feelings for Holmes – unfortunately, that reality wasn't going to simply disappear. She briefly wondered if she should tell him, but quickly abolished the notion – no, telling him would be a very foolish move. But, how could he not know? She hadn't exactly been subtle – she had more or less told him without saying the exact words. Those horrid three words – she couldn't even utter them to herself.

When they bought the boat tickets, they agreed to separate the chambers according to gender – i.e., Clara and Irene would room together and so would Watson and Holmes. Neither Clara nor Irene could say they were particularly happy with the arrangements, but both were content as long as the other wasn't with Holmes. Plus, Clara had to admit that it was probably better if Holmes was with Watson – only he could sufficiently ease his suffering.

The route they were taking was grueling, to say the least. Since they weren't in the military, they didn't have access to an express route to India. Consequently, they had to take a boat to Egypt, dock in Alexandria, get on a small boat and travel down the Nile to Cairo, and then take a train to India. According to Holmes, the diamond was stolen from a statue of the goddess Sita, which was located in a temple in the village of Sitamai, in Northern India. The logistics of the upcoming trip were certainly rather confusing, and Clara didn't enjoy pondering them too deeply. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how lengthy the trip would actually be – and the length would be the worst part. It would take at least three days to get to Egypt, and they were already three days behind the Patels. And it would take at least five days to get from Egypt to India, even by railway. Plus, they had to factor in transition time… the whole thing was simply dreadful.

But now, it was onwards to Egypt – she had to take things one step at a time. She had to admit, she'd always wanted to visit there, to see the pyramids, etc. But, unfortunately, that wasn't why they were going there, which made it even worse. Holmes certainly was a monomaniac, and there was no way they were doing anything until that wretched diamond was retrieved. Although, that probably wasn't a bad thing, seeing as Hope's men were still hot on their trail.

Once inside their chambers, Clara tried to ease the awkwardness between her and Irene by asking, "So, Irene, um, how many times have you been married?"

The beautiful American paused for a moment, slightly taken aback by her counterpart's feeble attempt at making conversation. However, she swiftly recovered and answered, "Five times. They were all fun at first, but I grow bored rather quickly."

"So, this thing you have with Holmes, how long has it been going on for?" she asked.

"Oh, Holmes is _completely_ different. I've known him for years, but he never ceases to be interesting. Something about him just draws me in – I can't place it exactly, but it's powerful."

"Yes, Holmes is very _special_," she agreed, "I can't believe I've only known him for a year – I feel as if I've known him forever." Although Clara was just saying this to irk Irene, she did, indeed, feel this way. It was almost as if he was the only person who truly understood her. True, Watson knew her well, but Holmes was a sort of kindred spirit; he knew how her mind worked and accepted it. She had never met someone she felt so attached to or meshed with so flawlessly.

Irene and Clara didn't talk much; at some point, Clara gave up trying to hold a conversation and the two just sat calmly in silence. Clara drew while Irene read; it had been so long since she'd done so, and she had forgotten how relaxing it was. It was strange how such a small motion could restore so much stability to a person. The night passed quietly and the four subdued companions dined together.

"I've been thinking," Clara began.

"That's never a good sign…" Holmes interrupted

"What a clever comment – never heard that one before," she remarked sarcastically. "Anyway, as I was saying, I've been thinking, and perhaps the diamond really is cursed. I mean think about it – what happened to Mala – that was just sheer misfortune, there was really no other excuse for it. And you, Irene, it was stolen from you – that certainly is rotten luck as well. Not as bad as Mala, of course, but still awful."

"But you're forgetting – Tress and Mala weren't in possession of the diamond at the time that they died," Holmes reasoned.

"No, but they _had_ had it," she answered after a moment of thought.

"Honestly, I don't think there's enough evidence to draw such a fantastical conclusion," he said, unimpressed.

"Perhaps. I mean, I was only suggesting it as a theory. I just thought it was an odd coincidence, is all. And like you always say, 'there's no such thing as coincidences.' I was merely keeping your words of wisdom in mind – you should be happy," she said.

Holmes merely shrugged and returned to his dinner. A couple minutes later, he coughed abruptly, causing Clara and even Watson, who had been quite silent and detached, to look at him. Curiously, however, Irene did not seem startled; she simply smiled coquettishly. It took poor, naïve Clara a few moments to connect the dots, but, when she finally did, she said, "That is not only revolting, but also fiendishly indecent." And, with a "hmph," she tossed her silky cloth napkin on the table and left. Watson, too, looked a little scandalized.

"_Do _try to control yourselves, you two," he said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you mean," Irene said innocently. Holmes, however, glared at her.

"Do you mind?" he asked, removing her hand from his leg beneath the table. He got up to go back to his room as well; he really had grown quite tired of the petty conflicts between the two women.

"What's their problem," Irene muttered huffily, continuing her meal. When it became apparent that Watson was not going to have a conversation with her, she grew bored and left the table, abandoning Watson. However, he didn't seem to mind; he needed to be alone for a little while.

Clara awoke with a start as the boat hit particularly choppy piece of sea. She had always loved water, but she was beginning to grow tired of it – there was only so much swaying back and forth that she could take. All of a sudden, she heard a scraping sound outside her door. It sounded as if someone with metal on them was moving flush against the wall outside the room.

_What if it's Hope's men_, she thought anxiously. Carefully, she stepped out her bed without making a sound – luckily, she had chosen the bottom bunk. Irene, thankfully, didn't stir. She quickly looked around the room for something to defend herself with. Eventually, her gaze settled on an umbrella by the door. She grasped it tightly and closed her eyes, clearing her mind. Then, she gently cracked the door open, wincing as it creaked. She peeked her head outside, only to find an empty hallway; she loosened her grip on the umbrella and let out a sigh of relief. _I'm just being paranoid, _she assured herself. But still, something didn't feel right. She didn't feel safe.

Doing the only thing she could think of, she quietly pushed Holmes and Watson's door open, umbrella still in tow. Fortunately, Holmes was sleeping on the lower bunk. She gingerly nudged him awake; he sat up abruptly and looked around.

"What's wrong?" he asked gruffly; his voice was laced with worry.

"Nothing – I was hearing noises. I thought it might be Hope's people," she whispered.

He looked towards the door and ran a hand through his already irreparable hair. "What time is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she admitted.

Holmes reached his hand to the top bunk and fished around for something; he pulled down Watson's pocket watch.

"It's two," he said irritably.

"I know it's late, I'm sorry, but I just didn't feel safe…" she tried to explain.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I don't know…" she mumbled. She peered out at him through her long black eyelashes, trying to make her pretty blue eyes as pathetic as possible.

"No…" he said carefully.

"I didn't say anything."

"No, but I know what you're thinking."

"Oh, but please, Sherlock? It would make me feel so much better," she said.

She only ever used his first name when she really wanted something or when she was scared. He simply groaned and lay back down, which Clara took as a sign of acquiescence. She gratefully nestled herself between him and the edge of the bed, lay down on his arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. She could tell that he was somewhat uncomfortable (it _was_ quite improper, even if they weren't doing anything… romantic), but she ignored his reservations – she felt comfortable enough with him that she didn't really care about societal restrictions. She genuinely wanted to be with him because his presence made her feel safe – not for some ulterior motive. In actuality, she should have been mad at him for what happened at dinner, but she was willing to put that aside for the sake of her own security. However, Holmes obviously did not feel that she was in any legitimate danger; otherwise, he would have summoned Irene.

Holmes woke up before Clara; he found poor girl lying against his side, her auburn hair an offensive sight. She looked very peaceful, he noted. Then, he did something completely and utterly out of character – he kissed the top of her head.

"Ahem," Watson cleared his throat, averting his gaze. Holmes nearly jumped out of his skin with surprise, waking Clara.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked his friend angrily.

"Long enough," he replied stoically.

"Nothing – "

"Nothing happened. I believe you – you're both fully clothed, which is more than I can say for the last time I found the two of you together like this."

"Oh my God, I forgot about that," Clara said, speaking for the first time; she covered her face with her hands embarrassedly.

"Yes, well, unfortunately, I did not," Watson replied. "And believe me, it is a memory I would much like to erase."

"You two better get up, though," he added, "before Irene sees you. I can't imagine she would enjoy such a scene."

"That is an excellent point, my dear fellow," Holmes said, quickly lifting himself out of the bed. Clara, too, got up and stretched her arms above her head.

"Hopefully she hasn't woken up yet. I'll try to slip in without her noticing," she announced. When she entered her room, she saw that Irene was still sleeping soundly, much to her relief.

The next two days of travel passed in much the same manner, except for the fact that Clara did not return to Holmes' room. She did, however, retain the nagging sensation that Hope's men were aboard the ship.

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A/N: So, as you can see, I've changed Watson's personality a little bit. He's more dry and sarcastic - I feel like this might be how he would respond to last chapter's events. What do you think? Is this realistic? Whenever I've seen people go through a tragedy or such they seem to act much more cynical (which is totally understandable). So anyway, I would like to know what you guys think about this - please review!**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all like this one :)**

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**Chapter XVIII**

"We have arrived," Holmes drawled, lightly knocking on the doorframe of Clara and Irene's room.

"We have? Oh, how wonderful – I can't wait to get off this horrid boat," Clara said excitedly. She was wearing a different manner of apparel that she usually did – she often wore dark, satiny colors, but today she was wearing much lighter, earthy tones. She looked almost as if she were about to go on a safari – it suited her much better, Holmes decided; she looked more adventurous.

"We're only going to have to get on another one," Irene pointed out.

"Oh, yes, you're right," Clara remembered sullenly.

"But it will be for a much shorter amount of time," Holmes interjected.

"That is true, thank heavens," she replied. The instant they stepped off the boat, she gasped, "It's beautiful."

And indeed it was – Holmes had never been outside Europe before, and the Egyptian scenery was vastly different. The skies were a clear blue, but, other than that, there was little color anywhere. The terrain was earthen and sandy, and palm trees comprised the only vegetation he saw. Fishermen were sailing on their own small flatboats, and on the shore people were harvesting what appeared to be wheat. It was easy to picture what things had been like many centuries ago when pharaohs reigned.

The next ferry they boarded was very different than the one they had been on before. It was a flat-bottomed steamboat, more akin to something one might see in the American South than a European boat. Holmes caught a glimpse of Clara's face, and it was clear that she was in awe.

"It's not as bad as you thought?" he asked snidely.

"I don't ever want to leave," she said dreamily.

"So far you've said that about every place we have been to," he remarked.

"Well, I just like to travel, I suppose. It's not like I've had the opportunity to before," she answered. She wondered what she would be doing if she hadn't met Holmes. She would probably be sitting quietly in her room drawing. Her life would be so boring – it would be completely devoid of adventure, which was the one thing she craved most in life. At that moment, she was inexpressibly grateful to Holmes and the opportunities he had inadvertently presented her with.

"I can't believe I am here right now," she murmured as she looked out into the horizon from the railing.

"We certainly are a long way from home, aren't we?" he agreed, leaning beside her. They watched the magical landscape for a few moments in silence. Words were unnecessary.

"You've changed," he noted.

"What do you mean?" she asked, taken aback.

"Perhaps that's not the right way to phrase it," he started, collecting his thoughts. It was difficult to tell whether he was talking to her or to himself. "You haven't changed so much as you've gone back to the way you were."

"Do you mind elaborating?" she asked, turning away from the side of the boat to face him. The sunset in the background made her eyes sparkle; they stood out against her shadowed face.

"You go through cycles of artistic creativity – I suppose that's normal – but, I believe you've actually told me this, you 'only draw when you're happy.' You've recently been drawing again; I can see the charcoal marks on the side of your hand. But that's not all, your personality has reverted to what it was when we first met. You used to be much more cynical. What interests me, though, is what accounts for this change. As of now, I have yet to figure it out."

"Goodness me, have I stumped the great detective?" she questioned playfully. "Well, I hadn't really realized it myself, but I suppose you are right. I have been a lot happier lately, but I can't say why. Perhaps it's just the change of scenery."

His dark, expressive eyes studied her carefully for a moment, making her self-conscious. "It would have been a shame," he said finally, "if you'd have been left in that rustic little town from whence you came."

"Funny you should say that, I was just thinking the same thing. If I hadn't moved in with my Aunt Martha, I would still be there, can you imagine! Dreaming, _praying_, for something more. For something better."

"It certainly would have been a waste if you'd stayed there, that's for sure. It's interesting to think about the chain of events that lead up to a certain point. Imagine all the things that could have happened that would have deterred us from meeting. You could have been married, your parents could have had one child less, your brother could have decided that he didn't want to go to university. The list is infinite."

"The universe operates in strange ways. Maybe it was fate that we met, who can know for sure?" She was such a romantic at heart. "But I must say, I'm glad things worked out the way they did – It makes you wonder, though, how many girls like me are out there, wishing the same? How many missed opportunities have there been."

"I don't think there are many people like you out there, Clara," he said. "You are different. Your aspirations set you apart."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?" she scoffed.

"Yes. You don't want to be like everyone else. Everyone else is so dreadfully boring – you saw, those women at Watson's wedding, that's the average Englishwoman – dead-set on getting married and attaining a high social standing. It's sad, really, that civilization has come to this."

"Yes, well, count your blessings, I suppose. I could very well have been one of those doddering fools; they seem to be polluting every venue nowadays. You should be happy that you got me and didn't have to put up with one of them."

"True, but do you honestly think that you would be here right now if you _were_ one of them?"

Silence fell, once again. Clara felt a strange sensation; she and Holmes had never had a conversation like that before. He was an extremely guarded person, even with her. Just then, however, he seemed to have truly opened up to her. She had seen a side of him that he showed rarely (if ever) and only to his most trusted circle. It was as if they had reached another level of friendship. For the first time in their relationship, she actually felt powerful. If she left, never to come back, he would care – he would be hurt. It was a wonderful realization because it meant that she wasn't insignificant to him. He really was fond of her – maybe he didn't _love_ her, but he was fond of her, which was as much as she could have asked for. Love was a word that didn't exist for him.

Oh, but she loved him so. She loved him more and more each passing day, and there was nothing she could do about it. She absolutely _hated_ it because she was helpless. Perhaps she could content herself with just being with him as a friend. Simply being around him was better than nothing. But what she felt for him was more than attraction; she couldn't place just what exactly it was, but it was certainly greater than some meaningless physical compulsion. She had never been in love before, but she remembered reading somewhere (was it _Tom Jones, _perhaps?) that the later in life someone fell in love, the more powerful the feeling would be. She could certainly attest to this theory.

But, for her to _truly _have a significant relationship with him, he would have to love her back, which, unfortunately, was not the case. Oh, well. Baby-steps. He was opening up to her, at least.

However, she couldn't help but feel slightly selfish. Here she was, daydreaming about Sherlock Holmes, while one of her closest friends was experiencing an emotional crisis. True, it had been many months since Mary's passing, but poor Watson had yet to accept her absence – as made evident by the little outburst in Paris. He seemed alright now, but who could say how he might react later on? He was in a very precarious situation, and she really should be there for him.

And she also couldn't forget that she was in danger; that was perhaps what should have been foremost in her mind. People were chasing after her with the intention of capturing her, and perhaps even killing her. _You should be worried about that more than anything,_ she chided herself silently.

Irene carefully put two dabs of rouge on her cheeks and studied herself in the mirror. Next, she adjusted her hair, but not in a way that made it look done up. The secret to beauty was looking like you haven't done anything – or so she always said.

This was not good. Things were not going well. How it had happened, she did not know; what she _did _know was that she had to do something about it. Did Clara really think that she didn't hear her come in that morning? The girl was even more foolish than she had previously thought – what Holmes saw in her was a complete mystery. However, the troublesome thing was that he did see _something_ in her, which was what she had to change.

He'd reacted badly to her advances the other day, which only placed more worry in her mind – he was becoming immune to her charm. And the worst part was, the more he pushed her away, the more she wanted him. She always did love a challenge, and the fastest route to victory was to remove the competition.

When she saw them conversing near the side of the boat, she knew that something had to be done immediately, which accounted for her fastidious attention to her looks this particular evening. Clara had to be eliminated. Now. Figuring out how to do so was her number one priority.

Why had he done that? And in front of Watson, too. It was just a kiss on the top of the head – nothing to worry about. Completely platonic; he didn't need to rationalize anything. But, then, why did he feel like he did? That was really what was troubling him most. He should never have let her stay, but he'd been too tired to fight her. If it hadn't been in the middle of the night, he wouldn't have allowed his judgment to be clouded. But, what's done is done, as they say; it was no use dwelling on it now. Perhaps, if he was lucky, Watson wouldn't even bring it up.

He walked into the boat's dinning facilities, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mind. When his sight finally snapped back into focus, he noticed the vision that was Irene Adler. Faint dash of rouge to the cheeks, overwhelming aroma of her signature perfume – she must have picked some more up when they were in Paris, and purposely-disheveled chocolate-brown curls. And last, but certainly not least, a beautiful red satin gown that just barely hovered above the border of impropriety. She was trying to impress him.

"My, don't you look just ravishing," he said silkily, gently pressing his lips to the back of her hand.

"John," Clara called softly. She was outside his quarters, on her way to the banquet room.

"You may come in," he answered.

"How are you doing?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"Well enough, I suppose."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to say that hasn't already been said. It's just – I want the pain to go away so badly – and it did for a little while, but now it's come back with full force. I just – I miss her so much – she was so young, it was so unfair. And to see Tress and Mala – they may not have been good people, but certainly no one deserves _that._"

"I can't say I understand, John, because I've never been through such a horrible tragedy. But just know that I am here for you – no matter what. Whatever you need me to do, I will be happy to comply."

"That's sweet of you, Clara, but there's really nothing you or anyone can do."

She nodded silently, before saying, "Well, why don't you join me for dinner – I was just on my way and I'm sure that Holmes and Irene are already there."

"Be careful of her," he warned suddenly.

"What? Of Irene?"

"Yes. She's watching you and Holmes, make note of that. And she most likely doesn't like what she sees."

"Oh, she's probably harmless. What could she possibly do to me?"

"I don't know, but I wouldn't put anything past her. Just be careful, is all I'm saying. Keep your wits about you and don't underestimate her."

"You're scaring me," she said, eying him hesitantly.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to."

"Plus, it's not like Holmes and I are – well, are…"

"A couple?" Watson suggested. "No, maybe not, but she doesn't like it when people infringe on her 'territory; even the slightest bit will upset her."

"Well, I like to think that I have a little more decency than to just throw myself into some silly fight over a man – Holmes, no less. It's not my decision anyway – it's his. If she has a problem with anyone, it should be with him."

"Perhaps," he replied, unconvinced.

As soon as she laid eyes on Irene, Clara decided to take what Watson had said more seriously. It wasn't so much how she looked (she was always gorgeous), but more how she was acting. And how Holmes was responding. But she ignored it – she was too mature to get involved with Irene's silly games. For the time being, anyway. For most of the meal, Clara directed her attention to Watson, almost completely ignoring what appeared to be a very infatuated Holmes. She wondered if he knew how seeing him as such made her feel, and decided that he knew very well and made he decisions accordingly; part of him probably _enjoyed _seeing her so strung out.

As she lay in her bed, she heard noises again. This time, she had her own room, as did Holmes, Watson, and Irene. She briefly toyed with the idea of going to Holmes again, but decided not to push her luck. Plus, knowing Irene, she was probably taking advantage of the fact that Holmes didn't have a roommate; some things were better left unseen. The notion of the two of them together should have made her blood boil, but for some reason she just felt a pang of jealousy – she couldn't really expect Holmes to be faithful to her, it wasn't as if they were involved_. _And he _had _known Irene for longer…

So, she closed her eyes tightly and tried to go back to sleep – there was nothing to worry about. That is, until the door shot open, revealing three burly men. If she hadn't been so terrified, she would have laughed at her luck – of course they would show up the one time she was unprepared. She tried to scream, but it came out as more of a short screech because she was silenced immediately.

"What do you want with me?" she hissed desperately, "We're on our way to get the diamond right now! What more do you want?"

"Oh, this isn't about the diamond. Lord Hope is angry that you escaped – he doesn't much like losing. He thinks that you need to be taught a lesson in manners, as do we," one of the men answered menacingly.

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Holmes is definitely having some internal conflicts, and I hope he's not OOC. I haven't watched the movie for a while and I feel like I may need to re-watch it to get back into the gist of his character... for some reason I'm having trouble. And also, you should all go read WHASHMACKITY's story, _La Vendetta è un Veleno. _It's really wonderfully written and very intriguing, so you should check it out. Anywho, please review!**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hi everybody! Sorry this is late, but I have a good excuse! I graduated high school on Friday so this weekend has been really crazy... But I graduated! I'm so happyyyy. OK sorry lol I'm just a little excited. But anyway, here's chapter 19...**

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**Chapter XIX**

_Recap:_

"_Oh, this isn't about the diamond. Lord Hope is angry that you escaped – he doesn't much like losing. He thinks that you need to be taught a lesson in manners, as do we," one of the men answered menacingly._

Clara thrashed violently against the man holding her, but to no avail. They dragged her out of the room and towards the side of the boat. Before they could throw her into the rowboat waiting below, she bit down on one of the men's hand. During the minute amount of time she was free, she was able to scream, "HOLMES!" at the top of her lungs. Almost immediately, he came barreling out of his room, as did Watson.

"Clara!" Watson shouted, his voice hoarse from having been asleep.

"John! Holmes!" she sobbed, trying desperately to cling to the side of the steamboat as they pulled her away unmercifully. There were gunshots, which caused her to lose her grip. She fell painfully onto the unforgiving wood below. She heard Holmes yell something to her, but she couldn't make out what it was; she didn't feel like she was entirely conscious. The sounds were drifting away – they were getting farther and farther away from the steamboat – farther and farther away from Holmes and Watson.

"Please," she whispered, her eyes shut tightly, "Please don't let this be happening."

"Praying won't do you any good, deary," one of the men laughed. She didn't know which one it was. They all looked the same.

And then, there was a splash and water started to come into the boat. Someone was boarding, and Clara finally gathered the strength to open her eyes. It was Holmes. Watson was back aboard the ferry; she could make out his worried posture in the distance. What was Holmes doing? There were three of them and one of him – unfortunately she didn't think she could be of much assistance. Why hadn't Watson followed?

He knocked one of them into the water very quickly – the one Watson had shot a few days earlier. One down, two to go. Clara forced herself to get up. She couldn't simply lay there like some damsel in distress, she need to make herself useful. She grabbed one of the oars and smashed it against the back of the larger man's head, sending him flying into the watery abyss. She caught Holmes' eye and he grinned at her, impressed.

"Watch out!" she warned. He ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding the man's blow. As the man whiffed, Holmes tackled him at full force, aiming for his midsection. The pair of them went hurdling towards the stern of the boat, making the poor vessel rock dangerously – they were very close to capsizing. Holmes delivered punch after punch to the man's face, until he appeared to be unconscious. Holmes then dumped him unceremoniously over the side. Two of the men were attempting to climb back into the boat, but Holmes knocked them over the heads with an oar. It was then that he noticed that there was a gaping whole in the bottom.

"Can you swim?" he asked her breathlessly.

"Well, if the occasion calls for it…" she began tentatively.

"It calls for it," he said shortly, throwing her into the water. He followed close behind.

Holmes must not have realized how difficult it was to swim quickly in a dress, for he looked at her disapprovingly as she struggled to out-swim their pursuers. Finally, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her behind him. When they reached the ferry, Watson immediately threw down a rope and began to haul them up. By this time, the little encounter had attracted a small crowd; some of the men in the group began to help Watson. Holmes boarded the boat first, and he steadied Clara once she climbed over the railing. She collapsed immediately into a fit of shivers and coughs. Holmes sat her down on a crate and Watson knelt in front of her.

"Will someone get her a blanket, for god sakes!" he ordered. Someone from the crowd quickly handed him a shawl, which her wrapped around her.

"You'll be alright," he began, "The weather here is mild enough that you aren't at risk of pneumonia or anything. You're just in shock." He patted her on the back in an attempt to help her cough up any water that she had swallowed, but she hissed in pain as soon as he did so.

"I fell on my back," she wheezed out. Suddenly, she heard a banging on the side of the ferry.

"Don't let them up!" she heard Holmes command. "They're the bloody imbeciles who started this entire ordeal – they tried to kidnap her. Do _not _let them up." It was then that she noticed Irene standing coolly in the background. _Curiouser and curiouser, _she thought.

Holmes went to Clara's side, resting a hand on her shoulder and whispering, "I didn't tell you before because I didn't want to alarm you, but there are crocodiles in this water. I don't think we'll be seeing much more of Mr. Hope's men."

Her eyes widened considerably at the mention of crocodiles, but she calmed down once he informed her of the villains' fate. Though it was bad of her, she didn't pity them in the least. As he made a move to leave, she put her hand on his, which was resting on her shoulder, and said, "Thank you. I – I don't know what they would have done to me. They were really angry."

"They would have killed you," he stated bluntly. She looked at him, surprised; she had to give him credit for being so direct, at least. "And you're welcome. They were incredibly foolish to attack you in such a close proximity to me."

"Yes, well, that was definitely a close one, nevertheless." Silence fell for a few moments, and the two watched the commotion that was going on in front of them. People were in a sort of panic, and the boat's officials saw it fit to attempt to calm them, assuring them that no such thing would ever happen again.

"Come on," Holmes said, offering her his arm, "Let's get you off to bed. You should try to get at least a couple hours' sleep before we arrive at Cairo." Clara nodded wordlessly and linked her arm with his.

As he dropped her off at her room, she hung in the doorway and commented, "Irene's acting a bit strange, wouldn't you say?"

"You don't honestly suspect…" he began, getting straight to the point.

"I didn't say that, I just said that I think she's acting a little off. I mean, did you see her once we got aboard? She was very indifferent."

"That's just the way she is – she's not one to show excessive emotion, which I know is difficult for you to comprehend."

Clara started back, surprised at his harsh defensiveness. Why did he feel the need to so fervently defend Irene? She hadn't accused her of anything, she merely commented on her behavior. Holmes saw how his tone had affected her, and he decided to make amends by saying, "I apologize for that, it was uncalled for. However, I don't think you have any need to fear Irene."

"Maybe," she sighed tiredly, "but maybe not. Who knows? But, anyway, it's alright. I've learned by this point not to take much of what you say personally. In any case, thank you again for saving me; I'm once again indebted to you. Good night."

"Good night," he said abruptly, turning his back. Once he was out of sight, Clara closed her door softly.

As she peeled off her soaking garments, she noticed a huge bruise forming in the middle of her spine. As she examined the angry red (which would soon turn to black and blue, she noted) mark in the mirror, she heard a knock at the door. Quickly, she rushed to find a set of clean clothes.

"Just a minute," she called. When she had finally made herself semi-presentable, she opened the door. Before her stood a concerned-looking Watson.

"Yes?" she asked expectantly.

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright. If anything had happened to you – I don't think I could stand another tragedy."

She looked at him confusedly, and he seemed to understand, immediately adding, "If you're wondering why I didn't jump in after you, it's because I can't swim. Believe me, it was absolute torture watching Holmes go help you while I could only watch helplessly. Oh goodness, Clara." He hugged her abruptly, causing her to flinch with pain.

"Sorry," she began, "it's just…"

"Oh, right, your back. I apologize. Would you like me to take a look at it to make sure that it's nothing serious?"

She had a feeling this wasn't so much of an offer as it was an order.

"If you insist…" she said, turning around and lifting her nightgown embarrassedly. She felt a blush creep over her cheeks as she exposed her bare back. She was glad that he was behind her because she couldn't see his face. "It seems I always get hurt around you two," she commented awkwardly.

"You definitely took a fall," he said after a while, clearing his throat nervously and letting her nightgown fall back over her body. "Try to lie flat when you sleep and don't curve your back, or it might cause long-term problems. But, other than that, there's really nothing else I can suggest. It's not terribly serious, but it's not just a minor bruise, either. It's going to take a while to heal."

"Thank you," she murmured, not meeting his gaze. She was still very bashful, as was he. You'd think that, as a doctor, he would become used to such situations, but the fact that he hadn't was very endearing.

"You're welcome. You should get some rest now," he said in a very gentlemanly but stiff tone.

She nodded and said in an equally uptight voice, "Good-night, then. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night," he replied.

Cairo, in comparison to Alexandria, was extremely lush. There was also a much heavier European influence, from what Clara could tell; there was more of a modern urban atmosphere. After disembarking the ferry, Clara, Irene, Watson, and Holmes went directly to the railway station. Now, this was where the bulk of their travel would take place. Like on their first voyage, Clara and Irene were required to board together.

If Clara wasn't sufficiently unsatisfied with the arrangements the first time, she was now. She had never liked Irene, but after her display the previous night she was even more wary of her presence. Something was definitely not right; she just couldn't decipher _what, _exactly. Sure, it had something to do with Holmes, that much was obvious, but just how far would Irene take their little "competition"? Or, what she perceived to be a competition, anyway – Clara was certainly not on board with the concept of competing for Holmes' affections. Life wasn't a game, which was a lesson that Irene had yet to learn. It _had_ to be more than a coincidence that Irene had dressed up particularly well and behaved in such a manner on the very same night. Clara kept her favorite of Holmes' quotes in mind, _"There's no such thing as coincidences."_ Perhaps she could use his own logic against him to convince him that there was something going on with Irene.

But, he seemed fiercely devoted to her, and, if she knew one thing about Holmes, it was that he was loyal. Not to a fault, for he seemed to have a pretty good idea of who could and couldn't be trusted – and he knew it, which only further solidified his own opinions. But Clara also didn't want to encourage Holmes to choose between her and Irene, for she didn't think she could bear to be on the losing end of that decision. In any even, she decided to let the issue sit – for the time being.

She boarded the train with a great feeling of relief. Sure, her back hurt like hell, but she knew that no one was chasing after her, which was a comforting fact. And it was also a fact that she would no longer take for granted. It seemed that she had only felt at ease a handful of times during her experience with Holmes. But now, they were the ones doing the chasing, and she hoped to the heavens that they would be able to take the diamond from the Patels quickly and painlessly. She had certainly had enough pain and difficulty to last a lifetime.

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**A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I don't know if anyone noticed, but I stole one of the lines from another movie - if you know what line I'm talking about, put it in your review! (It's one of my all-time favorite movies). Oh! And this story has surpassed its predecessor in terms of reviews, can you believe it? Thank you to everyone who has reviewed in the past, and please review this chapter! Anyway, yeah, it's a little short, I'm sorry. I've been pressed for time lately...**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You are all so awesome, reviews are what keep me going! OK, so here's the deal: I'm having really bad writer's block... I know exactly what I want to happen and how I want the story to end, I'm just having a bit of trouble actually getting there. So I'm torn between updating regularly and giving you guys good chapters. I mean, I really try to update as frequently as possible, but I don't want to just write some crap just so I have something to post, you know? Ugh. Hopefully this is alright...**

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**Chapter XX**

"Irene," Clara began as she readied herself of bed, "Do you have some sort of problem with me?" The awkward silence that had consumed the room was beginning to drive her insane, and her numerous attempts at making pleasant conversation had failed miserably. So, she decided to try something a little unorthodox.

"No, why would you ask that?" she deadpanned.

"Oh, I don't know," she said irritably, "maybe because you act as if my mere presence is intolerable." This was a conversation that needed to be had, and Clara silently scolded herself for putting it off for so long.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," she replied.

"Can we please just cut to the chase? I know you hate me – don't even attempt to deny it – I mainly would just like to know _why_."

"Just tell me one thing?" she countered unexpectedly, "Are you in love with Holmes?"

Clara hesitated, and Irene continued, "Ah, just as I suspected. Well, there's your answer."

"But I don't understand," she began puzzled, "you could have had him any time you wanted – why the sudden interest."

Irene rolled her eyes. "It's _always_ been this way – for as long as we've known each other. You're the first girl who's ever taken any interest in him, in all that time," she said, eying Clara suspiciously.

"I find that difficult to believe," Clara said, crossing her arms.

"Fine, maybe not the _only_ one, but you're the only one who he has also taken an interest in."

Clara snorted in disbelief, "Are you quite serious? Do you not notice the way he treats me? He pushes me away at every opportunity."

"Please, that's just his defense mechanism. If he really didn't like you, he wouldn't go about worrying about you and such the way he does."

"How do you know he worries about me?" she asked skeptically.

"I can see it in the way he looks at you. I used to be the only one he looked at that way."

Good, Irene was admitting something to her – they were making progress.

"But if you love him, then why don't you just tell him? I'm sure he would return your sentiments," Clara said.

"Do you honestly think it's that simple? Tell me, how has that worked out for you?"

Clara brought her gaze to the ground.

"Oh, so you haven't told him either? I suppose it's for the same reason – Holmes _despises _matters of the heart. He finds them mindless and unimportant. But I'm sure _you_ already know that," she said acidly.

"Look," Clara began calmly, "you have had your fair share of husbands – you've also had many opportunities to have Holmes to yourself. I find it rather unfair that you are doubling your efforts now that a threat, as it were, has come along. I would appreciate it if you would just leave him be. Things were much less complicated before you came along."

"Excuse me?" Irene asked, near hysterics. "Before _I_ came along? Do you realize whom you are speaking to? Things were much simpler before _you_ came along! I was here first! I can't believe the nerve of you! How dare you speak to me in such a tone – who do you think you are, you silly little farm girl? Do you honestly think Holmes could love you? Sure, I said he found you interesting – I did not by any means say that he was in love with you! And to call yourself a 'threat'? The absurdity of it! Do you mean to suggest that he could even _think _to choose you over me? Why, the very notion is absolute madness. Look at me, and then look at you. Now, really, whom do you think he would choose, hm? Isn't the answer obvious?"

Clara didn't think she'd ever been angrier. The idea of slapping Irene briefly ran through her mind, but she was able to keep her temper in check – to some extent, at least. Although she was able to prevent herself from resorting to physical violence, she was regrettably not able to prevent herself from saying the words that flew from her mouth.

"Never in my life has anyone ever spoken to me in such a tone. Who are _you_ to speak so condescendingly to me? The Queen? No, I think not. You're just an American whore who slept her way into wealth. Does that really mean anything? Does that mean you're better than me, just because you have accumulated money from your dead husbands? No, it doesn't, so I don't know why you think you're so entitled. And do _you _really think Holmes could love someone so selfish and conniving? I see now that his fascination with you is from a purely psychological standpoint – he must have some sort of strange desire to get inside criminals' heads, and your absolutely evil mind has garnered his interest."

Before Irene had a chance to respond (and, from the looks of it, she had a _very_ colorful response planned), Clara turned on her heel and left, chin held high despite her injured pride.

Holmes answered the door in his usual attire, minus his customary waistcoat and scarf.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Is there anyway that I could stay in a different compartment?" Clara asked carefully.

"Why?" he countered suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, Irene and I, we had a bit of a – um – falling out," she answered.

"A falling out?" He raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Yes, you see she spoke quite degradingly to me and I couldn't accept that. She called me a 'silly little farm girl,' amongst other hurtful things."

"Who started the argument?" he asked as if talking to a child. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Holmes cracked an amused smirk. "I see," he said, "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Isn't there some way that I can get my own room?"

"And do you intend to pay for said room?"

Clara hesitated.

"It appears not, so, no. Can't you just make amends?"

"Never," she said defiantly, "You should have heard what she said to me."

"Well, knowing you, I'm sure you put up a suitable resistance. You don't need me to defend your honor now, do you?"

"Of course not, but I'm not going back there."

"Well, you can't stay here."

"Why not?"

"Because I already made that mistake once before. You can either go back to your room or sleep in the dinning cart."

Clara scowled at him, and said, "Can't you or John switch with me, then?"

"I don't think it's a good idea if we stay in the same room," he said softly.

"Fine, then go stay with Irene," she snapped indifferently.

"It's that bad?" If she was willing to have them stay in the same room, it had to be.

"Yes, she was very rude to me and I don't ever want to see her again."

"That's a bit out of the question, don't you think?"

"Perhaps, but I can do all that is in my power to make it so."

Holmes sighed in defeat – she sure was a stubborn one. He rubbed the back of his neck tiredly and said, "Go ask Watson." He then sidestepped to allow her into the room; Clara made sure to deliberately brush past him.

"John," she started delicately, "I have a rather… _interesting_ proposition. You see, Irene and I had a bit of an argument, and I was wondering if Holmes and I could switch rooms."

"Holmes has agreed to this?"

"Well, not exactly – he told me to ask you."

"Clara, I know that we are very close and such, but I don't really think it's proper for us to share a room…"

"But _please_, John – it's nothing like that, obviously – it would really mean a lot to me. It was quite a bad argument. Plus, we're more like brother and sister, you and I."

He bit his lip and his expression was very torn; Holmes watched his distressed friend amusedly.

"It's not as if we're in such close quarters, either. I mean, we each would have our own bunk. There really is nothing improper about it. It would be much more improper for, say, Holmes and I to board together, wouldn't you agree? Which is why I suggested that we stay together, instead." Holmes shot her a questioning glance, for what she said to Watson surely did not match up with what she said to him. She shot him an impatient glance, warning him not to say anything.

"I suppose…"

"Excellent! Sherlock, would you be a dear and fetch my things?" she asked sweetly.

"I'm sorry, did I give you the impression that I was a maid?" Holmes countered sarcastically.

"Please, you know I can't go back in there…"

He rolled his eyes in annoyance but nevertheless left the room, muttering, "Just this once," as he left.

When he returned, her mounds of bags were obscuring his vision.

"I'll never understand why women need so much _stuff_," he commented irritably.

"Thank you ever so much, Holmes," she said, ignoring his tone.

"Yes, yes. Well, I can say that Irene was quite happy with the new arrangements."

"I can only imagine," Clara drawled, rolling her eyes. However, she then grinned at Holmes, who sent her a flickering smile in return. Suddenly, though, he seemed to notice what he was doing and excused himself at once, to her disappointment.

Watson, who had been observing the pair with a knowing smirk, said, "So, which bunk would you prefer?" once Holmes had left.

"I always did like the bottom one," she replied, trying to keep her tone chipper despite the fact that Irene was getting exactly what she wanted, and it was all her own doing.

"Just like Holmes," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing."

After they had settled into their beds, Clara was feeling restless.

"You know," she commented, "for someone so obsessed with logic, Holmes certainly can be illogical."

"What do you mean?"

"His misanthropic tendencies boil down to the fact that he finds people, by nature, to be untrustworthy and morally corrupt. Given this information, you'd think that he would show a general fondness to those who do not fit such a description. However, this is not the case. Actually, it's quite the opposite; he seems to be greatly attracted to Irene, whereas he hardly even seems to _like_ me."

"Well that's not quite true, is it? I mean he seems to like me well enough and I believe that I've displayed all the qualities of a loyal and generally good friend."

"I suppose, but haven't I? If anything, it is _I _that should be mistrustful of _him. _He's tricked me numerous times, and I can't recall even one instance when I've deceived him."

"That is true, but perhaps he just does not show affection for those he truly cares about as readily as he does for those he does not."

"You mean to say that he does not truly care for Irene?"

"Not precisely. Have you ever thought, though, that perhaps he does indeed care for you more than he does Irene?"

"Don't be ridiculous. We both know that's not true."

"It was merely a suggestion, no need to get snappy."

"Well, I suggest that we go to sleep now, what do you say?"

"That is a capital notion."

"Alright," Clara said – Watson could tell by the tone of her voice that she was smiling – "good night, then."

"Good night."

Silence fell upon them, but, after a few moments, a knocking sound was heard through the far wall of the room.

They could hear Holmes' muffled voice say, "I do say, Irene, the walls on this train are quite thin."

"They heard that whole thing!" Clara hissed quietly, craning her neck over the side of the bed to look up at Watson.

He merely chuckled and said, "They'll get over it."

The next day, Clara took no pains to hide her embarrassment when greeting Holmes.

"Sorry about the other night," she mumbled when she first saw him – she couldn't even bring herself to look him in the eye.

"You know," he said, smirking, "I've been called many things, but I don't ever recall being called illogical before – before last night, that is."

"Yes, well, I didn't really mean illogical in an intellectual sense."

"Didn't you?" he wondered lightly.

"No, more in an emotional sense."

"Interesting. Well, you don't have to explain to me what you mean – I think you did so quite sufficiently before."

"Again, I do apologize…"

"You oughtn't worry about it – you've said much worse to my face."

A pleasant silence fell upon them before Holmes decided to say, "I've talked Irene down a bit for you. I think if you try to apologize she might receive you. Last night she wouldn't even hear of the idea, but, as you can probably imagine, I am quite skilled in the art of persuasion."

"_Me _apologize to _her_? Are you serious? I told you before what happened." she exclaimed, ignoring his silly comment about "persuasion."

"Yes, but it seems you left some parts out. Clara, she told me what you said to her. You called her a whore?" his words were said with the utmost gravity, but she could tell from the poorly-disguised smirk on his face that he found her insult at least mildly amusing.

"Yes, well, I mean, one can't exactly be held fullyaccountable for the things he or she might say during – erm – bouts of the temper."

"I guess I just have to reiterate this – you're going to have to deal with her eventually. We _are _all going to India together. The journey is going to be quite tedious and it's not as if you can avoid her for all that time."

"Perhaps not, but, like I said before, I can try," she replied, walking away quickly. Holmes sighed exasperatedly and followed her.

"You have to at least attempt to make things right," he said, jogging slightly to keep up with her.

"No."

"Yes."

"_No._"

"Do it for me."

"For you? I hardly think this should even concern you."

"Oh, but it does. I'm the one who has to deal with two incredibly hostile women, which, in my mind, is the greatest plight any man should ever have the misfortune of undertaking."

"That's a very bold assertion, especially from you."

"And it's not one I wish to retract. Please, Clara, when have I ever asked you for anything?"

She thought for a moment, before she begrudgingly came to the conclusion that he did not, indeed, frequently ask anything of her.

"I will try," she began with some effort, "to be civil. However, if she does not follow my lead, it is no fault of mine."

"Fair enough," he complied.

She looked at him with a pained expression, silently willing him to change his mind about the whole idea. However, when it became clear that he was not going to waver, she left hastily to track down Irene. She wanted to complete the matter as quickly as possible.

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**A/N: I hope you guys didn't think this was too boring... I know it's not my best work (lol), but I did want this little encounter between Irene and Clara to happen and I think this chapter also gives you an opportunity to see how the characters really interact with one another when they're not piecing together a puzzle or running away from (or towards) danger. It's a little mundane, but it's a nice break, no? At least I hope it is. And it's a lot of dialogue, but personally I enjoy reading dialogue, so hopefully you do too! Please review!**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Hey everyone! I'm back and it seems as if I've gotten over my writer's block for the time being... I hope you all enjoy this chapter, I spent a lot of time on the phrasing and more technical aspects of it. Again, thank you to everyone who reviews and even reads this story, it really means a lot to me :)**

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**Chapter XXI**

"I really do not want to do this…" Clara mumbled to herself as she trudged over to Irene's room. There was a shuffling inside, as if someone was pacing. "Irene," she said, knocking on the door, "It's me, Clara." She tried not to sound as unenthusiastic as she felt.

The American slid open the door and glared at her. "What do _you_ want?" she spat.

Clara swallowed the lump of anger burning in her throat and said, "I just wanted to apologize. What I said to you was rude and vulgar, and you don't deserve to be spoken to in such a manner. I hope that you will be able to forgive me."

"Did Holmes put you up to this?" she asked in a no-nonsense tone. When Clara didn't respond, she continued, "I thought so. He asked me to do the same. For whatever reason, he really wants us to be on good terms." Still, she didn't respond; she was afraid that if she started talking she wouldn't be able to control what she said.

"Clara, let's be honest, we're never going to like each other. I do, however, appreciate your efforts to apologize, even if they were only due to Holmes' will. I suppose I will be able to be civil to you, at least." That's when she realized what was different about Irene – she seemed flustered, distracted – as if something else was on her mind. It was like she was merely going through the motions to avoid conflict; something that, going by what little knowledge of Irene Adler she had, seemed quite uncharacteristic.

"Good," she sighed, letting out a breath that she didn't know she'd been holding in. "Well," she continued abruptly, "that's all I had to say. See you later then." She proceeded to leave hastily – she didn't want to spend even a moment more than necessary with that wicked woman.

_(Later...)_

"Did you speak with her?" Holmes asked when she appeared. He had been sitting in the dining cart, reading the newspaper. Oddly enough, it was an outdated American newspaper. Clara wondered why on earth he would be reading such a thing, but soon realized that questioning him was pointless.

"Yes," she answered shortly, taking a seat on the plush, red-velvet bench across from him.

"And…?" he prodded.

"We agreed to stay on polite terms," she finished stuffily, not quite looking at him. She hadn't fully forgiven him for pressuring her into apologizing.

He ran a hand through his already irreparably messy dark-brown hair and sighed, "I suppose that's all I can ask for."

"That's _more _than you can ask for," she snapped in half-jest. He gave her his customary sideways grin in response. For reasons unbeknownst to all, he sufficiently enjoyed it when she back-sassed him.

"Anything interesting in the press?" she asked, gently mocking his bizarre choice of reading material. However, he didn't seem to notice; or care, for that matter.

"No, but when is there ever?" he answered distractedly.

"True. This trip is quite boring, Holmes," she complained, resting her chin in her hand.

"I concur, but there's nothing really we can do about it. You've already tried to cause a scandal with Irene, isn't that enough drama to keep you entertained?"

"Oh, please. You know I didn't start that out of boredom – that argument had been impending since the very moment we met."

Holmes shrugged, his eyes never leaving the paper. Clara shifted in her seat and cleared her throat in annoyance; she wanted him to at least _attempt _to keep her entertained.

"You are a very peculiar creature," he commented, carefully annunciating each word.

"Why is that?" she asked. She was clearly baiting him, and he knew it.

"You're just so _unusual_. The level of excitement you wish to have in your life is uncanny. Whether it be physical or emotional, you are always in the pursuit of adventure."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"No, but it is a rare trait in a woman."

"What can I say, I'm just one of a kind," she joked. "Except for Irene, that is," she added with faux-solemnity, echoing what he had often told her. However, she then said with true sincerity, "Holmes, what exactly do you see in her?"

"I'm not having his conversation," he said, using the newspaper to create a palpable barrier between them.

"I don't mean it in a jealous sort of way – I'm genuinely curious."

"I really don't know," he began exasperatedly, "The same thing I see in you, I suppose."

Though she knew that the implications of his words were completely unintentional, she couldn't help but feel a disturbing fluttering sensation in her heart. She really wished such feelings would subside…

"Sherlock," she began hesitantly, "I have a theory to share with you, but you have to promise not to get angry."

"You are determined to make this trip more painful that it already is, aren't you? What is it?"

"I think… I think Irene may have had a part to play in all this."

Holmes looked at her skeptically, so Clara quickly added, "Wait! Just hear me out. Don't you think it's even a _little_ suspicious that she's the only one who's been left unaffected throughout this whole thing? I was kidnapped, which hurt – at least I should hope – you and John. But Irene doesn't care about me at all – she was probably even happy."

"I wouldn't say happy, but I'm listening."

"Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but you of all people should know how to separate facts and emotions."

"So, what, you think she orchestrated this entire ordeal?" His tone was harsh, but she could tell that her comment had struck a chord.

"No, I didn't say that, but I do think she had at least some small part to play in it."

He mulled things over before saying, "I admit that you have a point, she _has _been acting a bit strange, especially since the Tress/Mala incident. Stranger than usual, that is. But what would her incentive be?"

"You," she said bluntly.

"If that's true, then that is a little more than disconcerting." Holmes didn't quite like the idea of someone obsessing over him to such an extent.

"Perhaps not you in the sense of being in love with you, but in the sense of stealing you – " she was going to say, "from me," but was able to quickly stop herself.

"Stealing me…?"

"For herself," she finished.

Holmes once again eyed her suspiciously, but did not reply – the last thing he wanted to do was bring up his nonexistent romantic interests. At this point, he found the best course of action was just to leave the issue alone.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "how is my dear friend Watson? I hope he's not _too_ scandalized by the prospect of sharing a room with a lady."

"He's alright. He's growing accustomed to it, I think." She didn't like that Holmes was evading the discussion of Irene and her possible ulterior motives, but she let his diversion slide.

After a moment, she continued, "Holmes, what are we going to do once we actually arrive in India?"

"We're going to go to the temple. Even if the Patels aren't there, the diamond will be. The diamond apparently belongs to a statue that is inside the temple, and if it's unprotected then we can just take it."

"And if it's not?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," he said casually. However, Clara knew that that meant they would have to take it by any means necessary.

"Do you think Hope sent out any more people to trail us?"

"Probably, but they're not a threat – there's no way they could get to us in a timely fashion, we're too far away from London."

"What if he didn't dispatch them from London?"

"Still, the post isn't _that _quick."

"I suppose."

"You know you don't have to worry, Clara. Even when they did try to kidnap you last time, I _did _protect you, just like I said I would."

"Yes, but it was terribly close. What if I'm not as lucky next time?"

"Just try not to go anywhere alone until we have this whole thing sorted out."

"I have a very strange feeling about this case, for some reason. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but something is off. I don't understand why Hope is so desperate to get the diamond back, I mean we would try to retrieve it as quickly as possible regardless of whether or not he was pressuring us."

"Yes, but perhaps he doesn't know that – or, perhaps he does and just doesn't believe it."

"But also, after I escaped why did they try to kidnap me again? Why not John? I understand why they wouldn't take you or Irene, but why not him?"

"Well, I think Watson would be able to put up a much more viable resistance, no offense. Plus, didn't one of the men say that Hope wanted revenge on your for escaping?"

Clara nodded and remained silent, but was still somewhat unconvinced.

"I see you haven't been sleeping well," he commented after a while.

"What do you mean?"

"You have slight circles under your eyes and your skin tone is pale despite the fact that we've been in steady sunlight."

"I hate it when you do that… But yes, I do admit that I've had a bit of trouble sleeping – mostly due to worry."

"Tsk. Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you – even though I probably shouldn't."

"What do you mean? When have I ever given you any reason to mistrust me?"

Clara raised her eyebrow challengingly, as if to say, _"There isn't enough time in the world to list all of the instances."_ Needless to say, Holmes didn't press the issue.

"But you know I'd never hurt you..." she gave him another look. "… intentionally…" he continued. She still wasn't buying it, so he decided to just stop altogether.

_(Later...)_

Eventually, their tedious journey came to a much-appreciated end. The monotony had come the point where it was truly unbearable, and none of the troupe would have been able to last even another day. The trip had morphed into what felt like one endless day, with each minute resembling its predecessor.

Although the streets of India were dilapidated to say the least, their stability was a more than welcome deviation from the ever-moving train. From what they could tell, the village of Karnal was fairly small, but not desolate. The bustle of everyday rural life was ever-present, which was another welcome change from the train – they had been nearly the only passengers at the end of the journey. Though the relief of their claustrophobia was overwhelming to the point of distraction, they were not yet finished; they still had to travel to the village of Sitamai, which housed the temple.

Outside the railway station, Holmes hired an ox-drawn cart to take them to Sitamai (it seemed they didn't have cabs here). Unfortunately, however, the transaction hit a blip when he tried to explain that he wanted the driver to wait for them to take them back to Karnal. It was quite amusing to watch a man as intelligent and articulate as Holmes struggle to convey his intentions to a farmer who clearly didn't understand a word of English. However, many flamboyant hand gestures and an obscene amount of money later, the cart driver seemed to get the message.

"Well done, old sport," Watson laughed sarcastically, clapping Holmes on the back. "You do realize that I speak Hindu fluently," he added quietly. "I was stationed in India for quite some time, you know."

"You might have mentioned that before," his friend replied angrily.

"That's what you get for always speaking French in front of me," he quipped.

In response, Holmes muttered something unintelligible (but decidedly vulgar) as he heaved the bags onto the back of the cart. Clara couldn't help but smile affectionately at his distress, an involuntary reaction at which Irene scowled.

By the time they reached the tiny village, it was nightfall. The driver told Watson that he wouldn't drive them back until morning, so they set off to secure lodgings for the night. Once the matter was taken care of, the set off to the temple, which was in the center of the town. The streets were quiet as death as they made their way to the ornate structure, which seemed entirely out of place in the rural village. Clara was about to open the large wooden door, when Holmes stopped her.

"Wait," he said, "look." He pointed to the long brass door handle, which was illuminated solely by the moonlight.

"What is it?" Watson asked.

"It's very smooth – no fingerprints – see how the moonlight gleams off of it? One might expect that, in a place like this, such a frequently used structure would be a bit more dirty."

"What are you getting at?" Irene asked.

"The last person to open the door was using a cloth or wearing gloves," Clara tried.

"Yes, most likely. Do you think many people in this village are afraid of a little dirt?" Holmes asked.

"No," Watson said, "Which means it wasn't someone from this village – or even someone from this country, for that matter."

"Precisely," the detective stated, making a face as if he had swallowed something particularly sour.

"Hope?" Clara gasped worriedly.

"We're about to find out…" Holmes said, pushing the door open.

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**A/N: Ahh I know, I know, that was a cruel way to end it. There are still a ton of things that have to be explained, but everything will be revealed eventually. This story is definitely close to being finished, which is really sad... I said before that I might do another Holmes story, but I think I'm going to hold off on that for a little bit. They are making a sequel to the movie, and I think it would be more appropriate if I wrote the next one closer to when it will be released. But I just love Clara so much and I don't really want to let go of her completely, so I might write some Holmes shorts stories. They probably won't all include her, but some will. Anyway, sorry this A/N was so long! Please review!**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I have the next chapter pretty much written already, so you're not going to have to wait more than a week for the next one. Enjoy :)**

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**Chapter XXII**

Clara and Holmes were the first to enter the temple, and the pair of them stood tensely in the doorway.

"We know someone's in here," the detective called into the seemingly empty room; his voice bounced eerily off the painted walls. Watson and Irene stood behind them; the doctor kept a tight grip on his cane, ready for combat.

"Mister Holmes," drawled a shadowed man with a distinguished British accent. His voice was proceeded by the _tap, tap _of expensive leather shoes and the shuffle of more tattered loafers. The sound signaled two other people in addition to the nobleman.

"Lord Hope," Holmes said mockingly in response.

"You know Mr. Holmes, I've travelled all this way looking for something that is really very dear to me, and what do I find? Nothing. It's not here. All the stories I've heard of your unparalleled deductive talent have led me to believe that you were, indeed, the correct person to entrust with its safe return, but it appears that I've been misled." He stepped into the light, revealing a dapper, middle-aged man. His two comrades also stepped forward, guns drawn – the man seemed to have an endless supply of henchmen.

"Entrusted? _Mr_. Hope, with all due respect," Holmes began condescendingly, "You haven't entrusted me with anything. In fact, this is the first direct contact I've had with you. I don't know what makes you think this diamond is my responsibility."

"Then what, pray tell, are you doing here?"

"Your… associate… contacted me. _She _is the one who asked me to help, not you."

"Ah, yes. Irene, love, come here."

Irene floated out of the shadows and said, "Now, darling, don't do anything rash…"

"Rash? Ha! My dear, you know me better than that! I merely would like you to come by my side."

With extreme confidence and poise, she obeyed his request.

"There's a good girl. Now, what do you think we should do with them?"

"With the utmost respect, my love, I really think we should give him a bit more time. I mean, he's come this far, who's to say the Patels aren't just a day behind us?"

"The Patels? Who are they?"

"The entertainers that Weaver hired for his party, remember?"

"They're behind this?"

"Who's behind it really is irrelevant," Holmes chimed in, not wanting anymore lives to be sacrificed, "What really matters is that I can get the diamond back."

"Oh yes, because you've done a superb job of it so far," Hope said, finally giving them a glimpse of his temper.

Holmes resisted the urge to roll his eyes before saying, "Just give me a moment, will you?"

He nervously eyed the guns, trying to get Hope's entourage to lower the weapons. Luckily, they seemed to get the message. He meandered over to the beautiful but weathered stone statue at the back of the temple. It was a statue of a woman, but in the place of what should have been her eyes were two gaping holes. Two! That meant that there were _two _of these wretched diamonds. He studied the recesses carefully. They both had scratches inside them, but one looked as if it had recent marks.

"Hope," he started without taking his eyes off the statue, "Did your…" he paused, searching for the right word, "companions arrive before you did?" When he finally did turn away from the shrine, he didn't look at Hope but at Watson, sending him a glance that only the two of them seemed to comprehend.

Mere seconds later, several things happened at once. From what Clara could gather, the first thing to occur was Watson stepped in front of her protectively. Then, several shots were fired. One of the henchmen had shot Hope, hitting him squarely in the chest. The other shot at Holmes, who, thank goodness, was able to step behind the statue. Irene and Watson shot one of the henchmen (coincidentally, they both chose to kill the same one), but the other was off before they had the chance to get him. He cleared Clara and Watson out of the way by wildly firing shots at them. Luckily, he wasn't going for aim as much as he was for scare factor. In a flash, she, Watson, and Holmes were chasing him. Irene stayed behind with Hope, who was, unfortunately, bleeding profusely.

Although it was nighttime, people – mostly men – had gathered in the streets on account of the gunshots. To the trio's dismay, this made it infinitely easier for the man to escape and completely impossible for Watson to fire any shots at him. Everything was disjointed. Holmes and Watson had tunnel vision. Clara did not. Someone had her wrist – probably Watson. He was dragging her along – through the crowds of screaming people. Very, very angry people.

There were too many things passing by for her to focus, too many sounds for her to make a specific one out. But she understood – she knew why they were upset. The stupid English had desecrated their temple and ruined everything, just like they always did. They had disgraced their goddess. People were grabbing at her and pulling her hair, but Watson drove them away with an indiscriminate wave of his gun. The revolver seemed to dissuade people from harming them. It was really just a test of stamina, now. Clara couldn't keep up with the men on her own, but Watson helped her along – somewhat at the expense of the chase. He tossed Holmes his revolver when it became apparent that they weren't going to be the first to get a clear shot.

Eventually, Holmes cornered him in a small home. The man was backed up against the wall of an upstairs bedroom at gunpoint, and the house's inhabitants cowered on the first floor. But the man wasn't unarmed; he still had his gun, and it was directly aimed at Holmes' head. It seemed their chases always came to such conclusions, two men with their weapons drawn, neither wanting to make the first move. It was the sort of standoff you'd expect to see in the wild American west, not in a decrepit Indian hut.

"Sherlock, no! It's not worth it! He'll shoot you!" Clara screamed in panic, trying to talk some sense into the detective. How she'd managed the breath to call to him was an enigma, but all she knew was she was not about to watch him get shot _again._

"I've survived a shot or two before," he said nonchalantly.

"No, Holmes, she's right. It's not worth it. There's no proper medical treatment here – if you're injured I don't know how much I can do," Watson said.

"Look," Clara said to the thief, "He's not going to shoot you. You can go." She went over to Holmes and lowered his gun, placing it on the ground.

The man looked as if he might shoot them anyway, but seemed to decide otherwise. He began climbing out the nearest window. He wouldn't turn his back to Holmes. A _thump _signaled his reaching the ground below. Immediately, Holmes grabbed Watson's revolver from off the ground and sniped him out from the window. Clara looked away, but heard the body drop.

"That's poor sportsmanship, that is," Watson commented darkly.

"What'd you have to go and do that for?" Clara asked, upset.

"I came all the way to India for that blasted diamond, and I intend to retrieve it regardless of whether or not it is still needed," Holmes answered determinedly.

As the three of them made their way to where the man had fallen, they noticed that a small crowd had formed around his resting place. They pushed their way through and Holmes knelt beside his body. Watson, in turn, took it upon himself to block off the area.

"Is he dead?" Clara whispered worriedly.

"It appears so," he replied, nudging the victim. He then proceeded to flip the man over and pat down the front of his jacket. He discretely removed a large item wrapped in a handkerchief and transferred it from the man's pocket to his own.

"You've got it?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, looking back at the angry crowd. "We must go… Our presence is clearly not welcome here."

"Agreed," she said. As they made their way over to Watson, who was a good deal ahead of them, the doctor turned around to greet them. However, his expression quickly changed from one of triumph to one of fear.

"Watch out!" he yelled frantically. The flash of fear in his eyes was not one that either Clara or Holmes would soon forget.

Before either of them could react, there was a gunshot. Holmes braced himself for the pain of impact, but it never came. Beside him, however, Clara fell. It took several seconds for him to process the situation, but when he did he couldn't believe it. His whole world was spinning and the blood rushed to his head. Nothing felt real – it was a dream – it _had _to be a dream. His first instinct was to turn around and beat the damned thief to death, but, unfortunately, he was already dead – he'd aimed his dying shot at Holmes and missed. Even he was frightened by the ferocity of his desire to kill at that moment.

Oh God. Clara. Why Clara? Clara, Clara, Clara. Why hadn't it hit him? He desperately wished it had. Not because he was blinded by his affection for her. No, obviously not. He would _never_ be blinded by anything, let alone emotions. But logically, if he had been hit, he would have a much better chance at recovery. That was why he felt the way he felt. That was why there was a burning in his chest more painful than anything he had ever experienced before – poisons, bullet wounds, broken bones, stabbings – they all paled in comparison to this new agony.

Holmes gently picked her up, not quite trusting what was in his arms. He couldn't believe it. It all happened so fast… People were closing in. They needed to leave. She needed to get to safety. He had to do something, so he started running to the first place that came to mind – the temple. They would be safe there – it was a sanctuary.

As he looked into her glassy, heavily lidded eyes, she murmured something incoherent that pulled at his heartstrings. She had blacked out, but most likely due to pain, not blood loss. It was too early to be from blood loss.

"Where's she hit?" Watson demanded harshly, the military man in him taking hold. Holmes couldn't ascertain the exact location of the wound due to the amount of clothing covering her body and the level of blood that was soaking her. From what he could tell, however, she'd been shot on her right side. If he was correct, the bullet should have missed any vital organs. Hopefully, it just skimmed her. Hopefully.

As they got to the temple, its priest allowed them inside and stopped the crowd. He spoke to them in Hindu, and what he said seemed to discourage them from chasing the outsiders.

"Thank you," Watson said sincerely, looking for a place to lay Clara down.

"In back," the priest said in very poor English. Holmes, who was still the one carrying her, mechanically obeyed him. His face was completely emotionless, but in a numb – rather than indifferent – sort of way.

There was a small cot, where Hope was laying (Irene was in a chair beside him) and a long table that had been cleared off. Holmes gingerly placed Clara facedown on the aforementioned table. He then immediately busied himself with finding clean water and a cloth to wash the wound, while Watson worked at exposing the affected area.

"Thank God she was wearing this corset," he remarked after cutting her out of her dress. "It prevented the bullet from hitting any organs. It's a fairly shallow wound, all things considered; she was struck right near the clinching in the waist, which is where most of the bone ribbing of the corset is."

"What of infection?" Holmes asked. He knew that the biggest risk of any wound was infection.

Watson looked at him sadly. "There's an unfortunately high probability that one will develop. Normally, at home, I'd be able to patch her up just fine – like what happened with you last year – it's a similar wound. But I haven't any of my things, and there are so many bacteria everywhere. I'm sure that even this table is quite contaminated."

Holmes did _not _look as if that was what he wanted to hear. Watson could see this, and added, "But that's not what we should be worried about right now. I need to operate, I need to get the bullet out, but I can't. I have no equipment at all! Ask the priest for something – anything – a knife, tweezers, alcohol, even just an open flame."

Holmes nodded sharply and set out as instructed. He followed the priest to his home and returned very quickly with an assortment of items – multiple knives, some sort of strong alcoholic drink (strange that is should be in a priest's home…), a needle and thread, etc. Only when he had completed this mission and Watson had commenced with the surgery did Holmes seem to notice Irene and Hope for the first time.

"Is he dead?" he asked her callously, beckoning to the other man's limp form. Holmes' entire demeanor had changed – he went from his usual confident self to a much more serious, worried version of the same man. Almost like a cat that has been doused unexpectedly with water.

"No, but he will be by morning," she answered softly. She had been crying, which perplexed him to some extent. However, all he could focus on at the moment was Clara's well-being. He pulled over a bench and sat near the upper half of her body as Watson worked intently. Now, Holmes was not a squeamish man by any stretch of the imagination; however, something about seeing Clara's blood made him feel sick. He concentrated on her face, instead. She looked somewhat feverish, so he took a damp cloth and pressed it to her forehead.

"You'll be fine," he whispered comfortingly under his breath. She had to be. He subconsciously grabbed her hand, as if to assure her of this fact (even though he knew quite well that she was unconscious). If a saner version of himself had been watching, he probably would have been very embarrassed. Still, his face betrayed no emotion. _This _was why he refused to get attached to people. _This _was why he'd pushed Clara away – to protect himself from ever having to feel such horrid distress. He had failed, despite his best efforts.

How had this happened? It was all his fault. Entirely his fault. He should have made sure that bloody foolish imbecile was dead. _He _should have been the one who was shot. He should have protected her. He didn't. What if she died? What would he do? The possibility made him nauseous. How could he live with himself knowing that he could have prevented her death? He couldn't think like that – she was still alive – she wouldn't die. She would _not _die. She _could _not die. He couldn't imagine a world without her. He would never have expected to feel this way. Ever. Even his extensive dealings with death and mortality hadn't prepared him for this; no amount of experience could have numbed the pain burning throughout his body. He'd never felt like this before.

"Finished," Watson announced after a while. Holmes didn't know how long it'd been – time seemed to be standing still.

"Did it go smoothly?" His voice was coarse. He didn't recognize the sound of it.

"Yes, but the operation was never what I was worried about," he reminded his friend solemnly. Watson was trying to be strong, but inwardly he was petrified. After what happened to Mary, he didn't know how he could handle another tragedy.

Holmes nodded silently in understanding.

"What happened," Irene asked quietly.

"Hope's other guard shot her," Watson said simply. Holmes didn't seem to be able to speak.

"What now?" she asked.

"I don't know," Watson sighed tiredly. "Clara can't travel in this condition."

Irene nodded in understanding – she may have hated her, but she certainly didn't want her to _die_.

"I have to get out of here," she said breathlessly. "I don't expect you two to come with me. You have to stay with her, I understand. But I have to leave."

"Where will you go?" Watson asked.

"Oh, I don't know, back to London I suppose. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, I've decided. I'm truly sorry to be like this, but I just can't stay here, what with what's happened with Francis…" she trailed off into tears.

"It's alright," he said, "go if you must. Take the diamond with you, we've had enough of the accursed thing."

"When will she be conscious?" Holmes asked, motioning to Clara.

"It's difficult to say," Watson sighed, "Perhaps tomorrow morning? If all goes well."

"There is no other option. There are no 'ifs'."

Watson nodded curtly. Irene was baffled by how deeply both of the men were affected by Clara's injury. Sure, she knew that they cared about her, but not to such an extent. It made her slightly regret despising her so much.

"I do hope she recovers," she said sincerely.

"As do we all."

Eventually all of them drifted into an uneasy, worry-ridden slumber. Holmes passed out with his head next to Clara's, still clutching her hand. Watson, too, was nearby, keeping watch over his friends in the chair by Hope that Irene had vacated. Before he went to sleep, he attempted to make the injured man more comfortable. His wounds were fatal, but he could at least try to make him as contented as possible during his last hours. Irene had said that she was going for a short walk, but no one expected her to return.

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**A/N: So, Holmes is showing off a bit of a softer side, which is unusual. But, I mean, come on. It's been one full story and 22 chapters. I think it's about time he shows some _inkling _of true romantic interest for Clara. My biggest problem with stories is that oftentimes the OC and the cannon character (whoever he/she may be) fall in love in like 3 chapters. I absolutely didn't want my story to be like that. And I think that it would take Holmes much longer to fall in love (if he even can) than any normal person, which is why I had Clara realize her feelings first - she's more typical, and let's face it, girls fall faster (most of the time, anyway). In fact, I thought that it would be so difficult for Holmes to fall in love that it would take her dying (or almost dying, that has yet to be seen) for him to realize that he cares about her. Like in the stories when Watson is shot. Again, sorry this is so long. So yeah. Please review!**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Onwards to the next one...**

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**Chapter XXIII**

"_Holmes, Holmes, she's gone. Clara – she's gone," Watson said. _

"_No! No, no, no! Don't say that! How can you say that?"_

"_I'm sorry! She's gone."_

_His entire body was completely numb. There was just… blackness. Blackness in the world, blackness in his heart, blackness in his mind. His thoughts consisted of a disjointed haze of memories, anger, devastation, and disbelief. Never had it been so difficult for him to process information – the news just would not register. His brain could not accept the connect between the words "Clara" and "gone." Everything shut down; there was nothing. No purpose, no reason for anything. _

"_You must be mistaken," was all he could utter._

"_Surely you know that I would not make a mistake in a matter such as this…"_

"_No. You must be. She's just asleep. She will wake up soon."_

"_Holmes, why would I lie to you? Can't you see that I'm upset as well?"_

_The last time he cried was when he was seven years old. Mycroft had smashed one of his "inventions" made from wood and string. If he recalled correctly, it was a catapult. He didn't know why this particular memory had surfaced, but he remembered it vividly. They were tears of anger, not sadness. Anger because he was so helpless – Mycroft was much bigger than he was and there was nothing he could do to avenge himself. If there was one thing Holmes hated more than anything in the world, it was the feeling of helplessness. It was his Achilles' heel, so to speak. That's exactly what he felt at the moment – an overwhelming sense of helplessness and hopelessness. _

_But, it wasn't as if he wanted to cry now. No, he was distraught beyond that point. He didn't feel anything, save for a biting emptiness in the cavity where his heart once lay. _

"Holmes! Holmes, wake up! You're dreaming!"

The detective's head snapped off the table immediately, his eyes eventually focusing on the face of his extremely concerned friend. He quickly untangled his hand from Clara's and flexed it once or twice to get rid of the stiffness. Once Watson had apparently decided that Holmes was all right, he said, "You know, after all these years together, that's the first time I've ever seen you have a nightmare. You mumble sometimes in your sleep, but it's usually very calm."

"Is she all right?" Holmes asked, his voice raspy from just having woken up.

"She's fine – just sleeping. Which is a miracle, after what you just displayed."

"What was I doing?"

"Just thrashing about. You weren't really saying anything in particular, though. What were you dreaming about?"

"I think you can venture a guess," he answered darkly.

"Oh. You shouldn't think like that. She's doing well. She needs her rest, but she might wake up soon."

"You're sure she's just sleeping?"

"Positive."

"Where's Irene?"

"She left, remember?"

"The only thing I remember from last night is what happened to Clara. Everything else is vague." _And unimportant, _he wanted to add.

"Well, Hope's dead."

"That's a shame," Holmes said emotionlessly, his eyes flicking to the now-empty cot in the corner of the room.

"Yes, well, his body's going back to London with Irene. She said that he would want to be buried in the family plot."

"Fascinating."

"Holmes, what are we going to do?"

"About what?"

"Clara. We can't move her yet. Are we just supposed to stay here?"

"I don't know, you're the doctor. Whatever is best for her is what we will do, of course."

Watson nodded sharply. "Then we must stay here. She won't be ready to travel for at least two weeks, and that's if everything goes perfectly," he said.

"Where will we live? We can't stay in this temple."

"Yes, well, while you were having your little nap, I spoke with the priest and explained the situation to him. He offered to let us stay in his house – he has an extra bedroom."

"Alright. We'll move her once she wakes up."

Watson nodded and set off to inform the priest (who was apparently called Brahma) of their decision. While he was there, he prepared the bedroom for Clara's arrival, sterilizing everything to the best of his ability. He had to make sure that he did everything he could to ensure her speedy recovery. If something bad happened (God forbid), he needed to know that he did everything in his power to prevent it. He would not have a repeat of what happened with Mary. He _could_ not. With Mary's death, he at least had the stability of Clara and Holmes. But, if Clara died (_don't think that way, don't think that way, _he scolded himself), both he _and _Holmes would be complete wrecks. Ah, Holmes. The poor man was acting very uncharacteristically. He could honestly say that he was concerned for his friend – he'd never seen him so worried, and, well, so _scared_. Fear and Sherlock Holmes did not seem to be compatible, but apparently even the great detective was susceptible to the trials of emotion.

As a medical man, he knew that Clara's injury was not nearly as dire as it could have been – he had seen people live through worse. That fact alone was very reassuring and helped him keep his cool. Holmes, however, was nearly driven mad with worry. Now that he thought about it, Holmes was acting similarly to the way he'd acted when Mary died; except Holmes had at least some shred of hope to cling to. He, on the other hand, had been left with absolutely nothing. But now, however, he was the composed, steady one. It was almost as if their roles had reversed.

_(Meanwhile…)_

Holmes took advantage of his friend's absence to study Clara's face without having to feel self-conscious. She looked peaceful, despite what had happened. He didn't like it. The tranquility reminded him of death. Her thickly lashed eyes were closed lightly, not forced shut by pain. The harsh eastern sun had painted a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and faintly tanned her fair skin. The light auburn tendrils that clung to her forehead seemed to be the only reminders of the ordeal she had been through the previous night. Eventually, her eyelids started to flutter open.

"How are you feeling," Holmes asked once her gaze finally settled.

"Ugh. I'm as well as can be expected, I suppose, but why am I on my stomach?" she questioned weakly.

"So that Watson could have the most advantageous angle while performing your surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Yes, I had to remove the bullet," the doctor said, making his presence known.

"Oh, thank you so much," she said, shifting slightly.

"Don't thank me just yet," he said, "And don't move!" He paused, before continuing, "Clara, we're moving you to a priest's home because you won't be able to travel for quite a while. Holmes, I don't have a stretcher or anything, so we'll just have to use the tabletop. Do you think you can help me break the legs and move her?"

"Yes, of course, but you might want to get our dear friend Mr. Brahma to help – I think this will require some heavy lifting."

"Gee, you really know how to flatter a lady, don't you, Holmes?" Clara said sarcastically. Although she meant for her comment to put him at ease – to show him that she was still herself – it only succeeded in further worrying him. She sounded feeble and tired, which put an understandable damper on her playfulness.

"I try," he replied, plastering on a forced smile.

_(Later…)_

Once Clara had been moved to her new chambers, Watson deemed it necessary to check her wound. Being the moral Victorian gentleman that he was, he had left her underclothes on and simply cut a hole in the area where the injury was located. The bandages were a gory mess, and she tried not to look at the wound. However, her morbid curiosity seemed to prevail, and she couldn't stop herself from sneaking one glance. She was immediately sorry she did. The stitches in her skin looked like some sort of Frankenstein-esque calamity. She couldn't believe that such a grotesque sight was part of her body.

"It looks all right," he eventually announced. Clara resisted the urge to snort loudly – to her, it looked anything _but _all right. Beside her, however, Holmes let out a breath of relief.

"Infection can develop immediately and show signs mere hours after the injury; as of right now, I see nothing of the sort. However, if you _do_ have an infection, there will surely be symptoms after forty-eight hours. If you are still fine by tomorrow, then we're over the worst of it," he explained.

A few minutes of silence passed, before Watson continued, "Holmes, I've made a list of medical supplies that I need. Would you mind going into the city and purchasing them for me? I'd go myself, but I think I ought to stay here with Clara."

"Yes, of course," he replied, "But what of the language barrier?"

"I've written the phonetic pronunciations next to the things that I need… I don't know how to write in Hindu, unfortunately, but I figure you're clever enough to locate the items."

"Alright, I'll be back as soon as I can. Take care of yourself, Clara," he said, brushing a lock of hair away from her face and leaving hastily. Efficiency was of the greatest importance, at the present.

Once he was gone, Watson said, "I've never seen him like this before."

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

"I've never seen him so… so worried. Clara, you should have seen it – you should have seen his face when you were," he paused painfully, "injured. It was like his world stopped. For the first time, I don't think he had any idea what to do."

"Don't say things like that to me. Why? Why would you say that? Especially when I'm in a state such as this," she said, tears welling in her eyes.

Watson looked utterly confused, and said, "Shh, shh, don't cry" – he gently touched the side of her face – "I didn't mean to upset you – you _know _I didn't mean to upset you?"

"I know," she sniffed, "It's just – every time there is a glimmer of hope that he may have feelings for me, they are destroyed immediately. And I can't take it anymore. I'm not strong enough, especially not now. My heart can't take it – I'm afraid I'm going to die. What if I die? I don't – I don't want to die. There – There're so many things… I can't. I can't."

What she was saying pained him so much, that at first he didn't quite know how to respond. "You cannot – You mustn't speak like that. I don't know what I would… what I would do if… After – after Mary… What I mean to say is, Clara, please, don't you dare leave me with Holmes."

At this, she chuckled tearfully (at which he objected, "Don't laugh! You'll tear the stitching," as any good doctor would). "I'll do my best not to. But you're the doctor. And you said everything was going well, anyway."

"Yes, yes it is, thank God. But please just listen, and don't get angry – I've honestly never seen him like this. Not with anyone – not with Irene. He fell asleep holding you hand – I mean, how out of character is that? I never thought I'd see anything like it."

She shook her head extremely slightly, but enough for him to notice. "No, no. He will never love me."

Watson decided to give up, exceedingly frustrated that his friend had dug himself into such a bottomless pit. Holmes had always had a peculiar tendency towards self-destruction.

_(Later...)_

Holmes returned from his mission later that night, moderately successful. He'd obtained the "essentials," as Watson put it, but apparently botched the pronunciations some of the other materials.

"You at least got antiseptics and bandages. That's good enough, I suppose," the doctor stated in satisfaction.

"Well, I should hope so. The toothless lady at the apothecary gave me quite the hassle. Who knew that old women could be so easily offended? I thought they were supposed to be hard of hearing and all that."

Clara stifled a laugh for the sake of her own health.

"How are you doing?" the detective asked her, his tone increasing in solemnity. That seemed to be the only thing anyone said to her, she noticed.

"All right," she replied. "John said that if there is, indeed, an infection, the antiseptics you bought should aid its disappearance."

"She's a very inquisitive patient," the doctor said fondly, "She wanted to know exactly how everything works. Now, she's a regular physician in training." Holmes usually did all the explaining, and Watson enjoyed the rare opportunity to usurp the position of teacher.

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

Watson looked at his pocket watch, before instructing, "Clara, you should probably go to sleep now, it's getting late."

"What? It's still light out," she protested like a spoiled child.

"Do you want to recover or not?" he questioned warningly.

"Fine. I suppose you're right…" she said, sighing deeply.

_(Later...)_

At about nine o'clock in the morning, Clara felt someone touching her side. Her eyes snapped open immediately, and she looked around in panic.

"Don't worry it's just me – Sorry, I was trying not to wake you," Watson said. He was unraveling her bandages. Holmes was standing in the threshold of the door nervously – he looked as if he didn't quite want to know how her injury was progressing. She tilted her head to get a look at the wound. It looked almost the same as before, but the skin around it was redder. Her paleness only made everything look worse. When he was done examining her, he anxiously ran a hand through his hair.

"What's the matter?" Clara asked in dread. She knew what the matter was, but she wanted to hear him say it – she needed confirmation.

"It's infected. Not badly, but still…" A surge of anxiety went through her body.

"But the antiseptics – they will help?" Holmes interrupted. He needed to know that she would be all right, that everything would go back to normal.

"Yes, they should," the doctor verified. He then took out one of the glass containers that Holmes had purchased – it seemed to be some sort of product derived from silver – and began applying it to the wound. When he was finished, he wrapped fresh, white bandages around her midsection.

Clara's eyes welled with tears – "I'm going to die," she said softly.

"No, no, no. No, you're not," Holmes said, going over to her bedside. "You're going to be fine, right Watson?"

"Right," his friend agreed.

"I hope you're right," she sniffed.

That night, a fever took hold. Watson assured her that it wasn't horribly abnormal, but she was still scared to death of what it might mean. What he withheld from her, of course, was the fact that fevers weren't horribly abnormal in patients that _survived_ - in patients that didn't make it, on the other hand, fever was a universal symptom. But it was only the second day. He wouldn't worry about it yet; if the condition persisted, they would be in trouble. But, until then, he would not panic. Before she went to sleep, he set her up with a cold cloth to the forehead. He then went downstairs to a small sitting room, where he was able to sleep. Holmes, on the other hand, kept his place in a chair by her side, diligently watching her and making sure that she was safe – as if sickness was a villain he could protect her from.

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**A/N: She's alive! Haha, I'm sure you guys aren't surprised. Unfortunately sometimes this story can be kind of predictable... I really try to keep it spontaneous and stuff, but I don't know, I'm just not that good I guess. I think I'm going to take some writing classes so I can get better. But, not to sound egotistical or anything, I think I'm a much better writer than I was when I started the first story. Hopefully. Please review!**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you all like this one!**

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**Chapter XXIV**

Clara opened her eyes upon hearing a shifting beside her. _So, I'm still alive,_ she thought thankfully.

"Ah, good, you're up. I've made you some breakfast," Holmes said, putting a tray of food in front of her.

"Oh God, Holmes. We both know you can't cook for the life of you," she groaned.

"Alright, fine. Watson made it – I supervised."

She let out a deliberate sigh of relief, and Holmes scowled in response.

"You needn't be rude," he said.

"Sorry. But you'd think that someone with such an immeasurable knowledge of chemistry could at least prepare an egg. The basic concepts of the science are very similar to cooking, really."

"Well, surely if I put my mind to it I could increase my skill level. However, I have no desire to learn the culinary arts, unfortunately for you."

"But, seeing as you don't have a wife, perhaps it would be useful for you to become self sufficient. Who's going to cook for you when my aunt is gone?"

"I don't know, but it's not a matter that keeps me awake at night." Naturally, the expected response would be to say, _"Well, I always have you,"_ but he was not an idiot. He was not about to take that bait.

"Speaking of which," she began curiously, "where do the two of you sleep at night?" It was the first time that the question had crossed her mind.

"There's a sofa downstairs that Watson sleeps on, and last night I slept there," he said, pointing to the wooden chair next to her bed.

"Oh no, Holmes, that's terrible. That won't do – isn't there somewhere more comfortable for you to sleep?" She truly felt bad for placing him in such a situation.

"Well, there is an armchair downstairs, but I thought that someone ought to stay up here to keep an eye on you. And you very well know that my sleeping habits aren't exactly… regular."

She thought that what he was saying was very sweet, but didn't comment on it – she didn't want him to get defensive.

"You needn't worry about me so – I'll be better in a jiff," she weakly assured him.

"I should hope," he said; he didn't seem to quite believe her.

A moment later, Watson could be heard climbing the staircase. Once he entered the room, it was clear that he had been in some sort of scuffle.

"What's happened to you?" Holmes asked curiously, tilting his head to one side.

Watson replied, "I just went to the market – they really detest us here. Children started throwing stones at me on my way back."

Clara winced sympathetically and Holmes asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Once I got close enough the house, they relented. They won't bother us as long as we're under this roof, I just hope it will stay that way."

"You said two weeks before we can leave?" she asked.

"Yes," he started hesitantly, "But that's not exactly ideal – I don't want to travel until we're entirely sure that you've recovered. You remember the trip – it was stressful enough without having to worry about healing from a gunshot wound."

"So, we either stay here and deal with the hostile locals or risk her getting worse on the voyage back?" Holmes said.

"Yes. It's a Morton's fork, really."

"Well, I'm getting better, right?" she asked somewhat desperately.

"Hopefully – let's take a look…" said the doctor. And so, he unraveled her bandages once again – the motion was beginning to feel very ritualistic.

"How's it looking, doc?" she asked lightly. Watson quickly gaze shot from her injury, to her face, then back to her injury - at that moment, he truly felt as if he was speaking to Holmes.

"The infection hasn't worsened, but it hasn't gotten better, either," he said critically.

"Well, as long as it's not worse…" she trailed off quietly.

"As it is now, you'll probably be able to recover with only minor aid from the antiseptics, et cetera," he said.

"Excellent!" she said happily. She wanted nothing more than to just get better – she hadn't left her bed in over four days, and she was restless, to say the least. However, though she was convinced that she was well enough to wander around, Watson and Holmes insisted that she conserve her energy. Even a mere lap around the room was deemed too exerting.

The next week or so passed with unbearable sluggishness; each day merged with the next, until all that was left was an indefinite (but decidedly _long_) period of time during which little (if not nothing) occurred. What marked the end of this episode, however, was Watson's begrudging willingness to allow Clara walking privileges. Never in her life did she think she'd be so delighted to be allowed to engage in something as simple as using her legs; but, then again, since she'd been with Holmes and Watson, she'd felt many things that she had never expected to feel.

When she first stood (or _tried_ to stand), her legs were extremely weak from lack of use. Surely she would have collapsed if Holmes and Watson hadn't been standing attentively by her side, helping her step by step. She didn't need both of them helping her, especially since she was thinner and frailer than she'd ever been – either of them could have supported her entire weight effortlessly. But, it was still flattering to know that the pair of them both cared enough to want to help her.

A few days later, when she'd grown accustomed to walking again, she even tried climbing up and down the stairs to increase her strength. It was around this time that she regained her appetite and began to feel relatively normal once again. With this new optimism came a more developed sense of awareness; since her injury, the three of them had been almost entirely consumed with the prospect of her recovery and they'd quite nearly abandoned contemplation of the case. As Clara and Watson saw it, Hope's death rendered the issue inconsequential. Holmes, however, was never one to desert a case on account of such trivial details. He hadn't taken the case for Hope – or even Irene, for that matter. He'd taken the case because it interested him, and he was not going to forget about it until it was solved.

At a glance, the whole thing seemed rather straightforward; Tress stole the diamond, fled to France with Mala, and pawned it. The other Patels then stole it – Mala must have told one of her sisters that Tress was responsible for the original theft. And Irene wanted it back because it was Hope's. And Hope needed it so desperately because his family was on the verge of cutting him off. Yes, very straightforward. _Too_ straightforward, even.

But, if Irene truly wasn't as innocent as she claimed, as Clara thought, what was her incentive for deceiving them? Unlike Clara, he did not think that _he _was enough of a motivation. And she cried for Hope – why would she do that if she'd planned it? He had never taken her for one to love, but there was a first for everything… Although, if she _were _to fall in love, he highly doubted it would be with Hope. Perhaps they were tears of guilt? He needed more data.

"What are you thinking about?" Watson wondered aloud.

"Sorry?" Holmes asked.

"You've been staring into the oblivion for nearly ten minutes. Why?"

"Just trying to figure out the case."

"The case? But Hope's dead."

"… And?"

Watson rolled his eyes. "Never mind." Of _course_ he would still be going on about the case. Although, he supposed it was an improvement from incessantly worrying about Clara.

"You know," he said after a moment, "I think we'll be able to leave in a few days."

"Really?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, Clara is doing quite well. I guess she has a stronger constitution than I might have supposed."

"Well, that's superb news. I never did like leaving London. And abandoning my room for so long is very distressing – Heaven knows what Nanny's done with the place. I feel sick just contemplating the damage she has done." He did seem genuinely concerned as he put his palm over his eyes.

Watson smirked – he was nearly positive that Mrs. Hudson had completely organized Holmes' pigsty; his dismay upon returning would be quite comical.

"Would you like to inform Clara, or shall I?" the doctor asked politely.

"I'll tell her," Holmes volunteered.

He ascended the staircase and walked into her little room, which, by English standards, could hardly be considered a closet. A whole manner of medical supplies had accumulated on the various surfaces in the room over the course of their stay, making it seem like a supply cupboard than a bedroom. Clara was sitting on the bed dutifully (for Watson insisted on at least three hours of rest per day), sketching the town from the window. She put her notepad down upon hearing the detective's entrance.

"Yes?" she asked expectantly.

"I have some good news…" he paused dramatically. She was expecting him to say, _"and some bad news_._"_

"And?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"There is no 'and.' Just good news."

"Well, I should like to hear it!" she blurted out – he was in one of his moods…

"Yes, yes, of course. Our dear doctor has said that you'll be ready to travel in a few days."

"Is that so?" she asked happily, "Why, that's wonderful! It's about time, though, I do say. I've been well enough to travel for some time now…"

"I don't know about that…" Holmes protested tentatively.

"I have been, whether you two choose to believe it or not."

"Well, none of that really matters, anymore. The fact of the matter is we can go home in four days!"

"Four?"

"Well, he only said, "a few," but seeing as we have four days left until we reach the two-week mark, I assume…"

"Yes, yes, I understand," Clara interjected.

"Good," he said brusquely, turning to leave.

"Wait, Holmes," she called. He turned back to face her expectantly.

"I – thank you, for everything," she said awkwardly.

"Don't mention it," he said, clearly annunciating each syllable. She pursed her lips and nodded sharply – he knew what she was trying to convey - he always did. She didn't need to burden her message with the unnecessary use of words. Perhaps someday she would be able to say all she meant eloquently, but she hadn't reached that point just yet.

_(Later…)_

The next four days passed even more slowly than their torturous predecessors. However, by their justly celebrated end, everyone was more than ready for things to return to normal. Everyone meaning _everyone_ – the townspeople and even Brahma couldn't wait for the trio to leave, either. Once they'd made it to the railway in Karnal, they felt as if they had made it back to some sort of halfway modern civilization. The presence of such familiar sights as newspaper stands and the haze of smoke from the trains were much more comforting than one would expect.

At one of the platforms, there was a newsstand with papers from all around the world, including London. Granted, the papers were very outdated. However, Holmes purchased one, nevertheless – for "entertainment purposes," as he put it.

"I never could understand why he had such a preoccupation with those things," Clara whispered to Watson, "It's not as if he's very current – he's gone long periods without even knowing the month before."

"You know how some of the papers have Sudoku?"

"That number game?"

"Yes. You see, for Holmes, the crimes section is like that. He solves them for fun."

Clara's mouth made an "o" shape in understanding – that made sense, she supposed.

Once they were seated and waiting for the train to depart, Holmes carefully unfolded the paper.

After a few minutes, she asked, "Anything interesting?"

"Mr. Elias Green's sixteen-year-old daughter, Rachel, was abducted. £5,000 reward. Send any information to 60 Fleet Street," he read. "She wasn't abducted, she eloped with the carpenter's apprentice," he stated immediately after finishing the article.

"How…" Watson began.

"Oh, let me try!" Clara said excitedly. "Well, let's see – we know he's wealthy, given the reward and the location at which he works – I'm assuming 60 Fleet Street is his office, not his house. So, he probably lives somewhere expensive – perhaps Kensington Square? And there was a fire there a while back – nothing major, but enough to require a bit of reconstruction… Which is, I assume, why there could be a carpenter and a carpenter's apprentice in his house – it also explains why he wants to meet at his office, not his home. So, Rachel met the carpenter's apprentice while he was working and the two of them fell in love and eloped."

"Very good – you're learning," Holmes said proudly. "Watson, what do you think?"

"I think you two have spent too much time together," the doctor said wryly.

Clara scoffed, but his words seemed to have hit a nerve with Holmes.

"Anything else?" she asked hopefully.

"No," he replied, pocketing the paper abruptly. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously for a moment at his odd behavior, but then she looked out the window.

"How are you feeling?" Watson asked in reference to her injury.

"Fine, really," Clara said in frustration. However, her voice softened a little and she said, "I mean, it hurts a bit when I move around a lot, but otherwise it's not bad."

"You should be careful," he insisted pointedly. "Don't move if you don't have to."

"Aye, aye, captain," she said sarcastically.

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**A/N: Haha I know I said that the story would be ending soon, but it seriously seems to have a life of its own... And I looked up when Sudoku was first put in newspapers, and it just said in the late 19th century. So idk if they would actually have it during this time, but if not it's pretty close. **

**Anyway, has anyone watched the new BBC Sherlock series? There's only been one episode so far, but it seems really good - it's like a modern day version, which seems kind of weird but it actually works well. You can't watch it here in the US, but I was able to find it online. And there's a character named Clara in it! She's not even shown or anything, but the fact that someone else chose that name in particular for one of the people made me really happy. Please review!**


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Hey guys, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you're not getting bored with this story, because I'm still really dedicated to it. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

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**Chapter XXV**

A week – _another_ week, and they were back in their element. Holmes and Watson, having lived in London for a considerably longer period of time than Clara had, were most elated to have returned. Her injury was feeling much better, but she still had a long way to go before she was back to normal. Just recently, she'd come to terms with the fact that she would always have a horrid scar as a reminder of their adventure. At first she had lamented over the blemish, but then came to think of it as a sort of right of passage – both Watson and Holmes had bullet scars as well, and she saw it as a sort of tangible reminder of their association.

"Four weeks! Four ruddy weeks, you've been gone!" Mrs. Hudson shouted upon their arrival at 221B Baker Street. "And no word – not even a letter – of where in God's name you've been! You could have been dead, for all I knew!" she ranted.

"Lord help me," she muttered once she'd calmed down, "Children. I'm taking care of children."

"Mrs. Hudson, now that you appear to have collected yourself, allow me to explain," Holmes said patiently. "Our case took us to India – that's where we've been for all this time."

"India!" she exclaimed, "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Look, Aunt Martha, we're fine," Clara insisted earnestly, "You needn't worry."

"Fine? Clara, look at you – you're clearly _not_ fine."

The trio shifted nervously as Mrs. Hudson began to walk over to inspect her niece. If she got too close she would notice…

"Why aren't you wearing a corset?" she asked, aghast. No respectable lady would ever walk around without a corset – especially not in the presence of two men.

"Uh..." she hesitated. She didn't know which would be worse, the truth or a lie. Then, Mrs. Hudson noticed a lump in her side.

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously. She was about to prod it, but Watson quickly said, "Don't!"

"Were you – were you injured?" the landlady asked worriedly.

"Just a bit," Clara finally admitted.

"What do you mean 'just a bit'?" she demanded, now turning her attention towards Holmes and Watson.

"There was an accident…" Holmes said vaguely.

"What _type_ of accident?" she hissed venomously.

"One involving a pistol…" Clara said quietly, her tone matching Holmes'.

"You were shot?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes…"

"I looked after her quite attentively, don't worry," Watson interjected, hoping to alleviate at least some of the concern and anger that was surely accumulating.

"Last time it was a broken wrist, now it's a gunshot wound. What'll it be next? You'll be dead by the end of the year, if you keep this up!"

Clara hung her head and shrunk back timidly – she knew her aunt was right, to a certain extent.

"Clara, when will you see – their line of work is no place for a woman!"

"It won't happen again," she assured her.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I wasn't very careful – I should have been paying closer attention. The wound was preventable."

"You shouldn't even be around firearms, let alone dodging bullets! It's not right!"

"Aunt Martha, all of this yelling is putting a strain on my _injury_," she said haughtily, "I think I need to go upstairs and rest." With that, she turned sharply on her heel and began walking up the staircase. Holmes and Watson followed suit to avoid the wrath of their furious landlady.

"My room! My things!" cried Holmes in dismay upon entering his now spic and span room. "God damn it, woman!" He looked as if he might tear all his hair out in anger. Clara and Watson couldn't help but snicker. He started throwing papers and knocking things over in order to recreate his comfortable chaos.

"Sherlock, stop it! Good Lord…" Clara said, trying to calm him down. She gently put her hand on his arm, bringing him out of his frenzy. She seemed to get through to him, which surprised her. Watson seemed a bit taken aback by his obedience, too; it wasn't like Holmes to ever listen to anyone. But Clara would no longer allow herself to dwell on her interactions with the stubborn detective – she only ever succeeded in making herself feel horrible. She was quite sure that the best way to deal with her attraction to him was to ignore it.

_(Later…)_

The three of them sitting quietly in Holmes' room created an almost alarming sense of normalcy; it was as if they'd never been to India at all.

"We probably ought to contact Irene," Holmes said after a while.

Clara groaned unenthusiastically, but Watson said, "You're right… She seemed quite distraught about the whole thing."

"Do you think she's even still in London? We've been gone for a long time – perhaps she's left." Her tone sounded more hopeful than inquiring.

"She never leaves without saying goodbye," Holmes said bluntly. Clara chewed on her lip in clear irritation.

"She was sorry about what happened to you, you know," Watson told her.

"I doubt it – she was probably just trying to make you two believe she's not pure evil."

"She seemed pretty sincere," the doctor reasoned.

"Let me just be frank with the two of you right now – I will never like her. Ever. Nothing is going to change that. And I'm sure she feels the same about me."

Neither of the men said anything – the last thing they wanted was to get in the middle of such a dispute. Disputes between women were always by far the most dangerous.

"So dramatic," Holmes mumbled.

"You're one to talk," Clara scoffed.

"She has a point, Holmes."

"Oh, shut up. You always take her side."

"It's because I'm always right, obviously."

"Ha! That's rich…"

"Honestly, the two of you should just get married already. You have the behavior down to a tee," Watson joked.

"Don't ever say such things – not even in jest," Holmes warned solemnly. Clara, on the other hand, couldn't help but chuckle.

"But, on a completely different and more relevant note, we really must contact Irene," he said.

"Well, don't you know how to get a hold of her?" Watson asked.

"Yes, she's probably staying at the Grand."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Clara asked.

"Don't know," he said whimsically, "Let's go."

At the hotel, Holmes didn't even bother asking the concierge which room Irene was in – he already knew. He was about to knock on the door, but it opened before he got the chance.

"Ah, Sherlock. I was wondering when you would stop by," she purred. She seemed much better than she had a few weeks ago.

"You're doing well, I see," he said apathetically.

"Oh yes, that whole thing was positively dreadful. Everything's sorted now, though."

"What did you tell them the cause of death was?" Holmes asked curiously.

"I said that he'd been shot by a robber in India while on a philanthropic endeavor – it's better if people remember him that way."

"I see," the detective said thoughtfully.

"And Clara," she said, "I'm glad to see you've recovered." Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she sounded rather disingenuous.

"Thanks," she replied lamely.

"I'm going back to America soon," the other woman stated smoothly, turning back to Holmes.

"Pity," Clara said sarcastically under her breath – luckily, only Watson heard her; he looked down at her disapprovingly, but didn't say anything.

"Why is that?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, I don't know – I'm getting bored, I suppose."

"You never could stay in one place for more than a few months," he observed.

"Well, after a while, everything begins to feel so routine and dull. I hate that – surely you can sympathize."

Holmes nodded briskly. "Well, we only came here to check on you," he said, "So we'll be going now."

Surprisingly, she didn't try to stop him from leaving. "Alright. Goodbye, John – Clara. Perhaps I'll be seeing you soon, Sherlock."

_(A few days later…)_

As Holmes entered his room, which had only barely been returned to its typical disheveled state, he noticed a small piece of parchment lying atop his desk. He immediately recognized Irene's beautifully scrawled handwriting and quickly scanned the paper. It read:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_As we have reached the end of the case and our journey, it has come time for me to leave. I may not have loved Hope, but his death was, indeed, a loss to me and, like I said before, I must return home. But I truly don't want this to be the end of our time together. We always separate at the end of a case – does it really have to be that way this time? We've never even tried to sustain any type of long-term relationship – how do we know that it won't work? Please, considering coming away with me – I've asked you many times before, but I feel that now is different. Just think about it. Consider it an experiment to see if we can be together._

_I am leaving for New York at 6 o'clock on the H.M.S. Oceanic, and I sincerely hope that you will join me._

_Forever Yours,_

_Irene_

He should have seen it coming, really. She had been trying to reach this point for nearly the entirety case. She didn't love him, per say, she just wanted to see if she could fully capture his heart. That's what it was – a need for reassurance. Just like he _needed _to find the answer to a case; he couldn't let one go unsolved because he needed know that he was clever enough to figure it out. It was more than a compulsion. It was the same with her, to a certain extent. She _needed _to know that she could have anything she wanted. Including people.

But, despite this knowledge, a certain part of him wanted to join her. It was the part of him that was irresistibly drawn to her – like an addiction. Had he been younger and freer, he would have had no hesitation in going with her. But he had certain aspects of his life grounding him – Watson, Clara, his profession. Ah yes, Clara. If he left, it would inevitably break her heart. He did not know to what extent she cared for him, but he did know that he was very important to her. Although, she seemed less concerned with building a relationship with him, lately. He was thankful for that...

He paused - he was, wasn't he? This was the first time he'd doubted himself. When she had been injured, he had felt something so strong that he'd nearly been immobilized. It was incomprehensible. He'd honestly felt that, if she died, life would lose all meaning. He hadn't ever felt that about anyone or anything. To be honest, the sensation frightened him. He had _never _let emotions cloud his thoughts. He'd thought that he just admired her – respected her. But it was stronger than admiration. What if that was love? What if he was in love with her?

No. No, never. He wouldn't allow it. But how could he stop it? He had tried everything, hadn't he? But, if he _were_ in love with her (he wasn't, this is merely hypothetical), how would he go about dealing with such a realization? He didn't even know where to start. Did he tell her? Then what, what if he told her? The implications of love are marriage, naturally. And he didn't want to get married. That was such a drastic change – marriage was the scourge of society. He would be reduced to nothing – no individuality – there would be nothing separating him from the average, mundane, _idiotic_ civilian. Because, with marriage, comes routine. Horrible, dreadful, monotonous routine. And by admitting his (hypothetical) feelings, he would be succumbing to the "dull routine of existence," as he liked to call it, that he so detested.

But this was _Clara_, not some… some Mary. That was the best way he could relate it. His relationship with Clara was nothing like Watson's was with Mary. She probably didn't even want to get married, either. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself – he didn't even know if she loved him. He suspected it, to be sure. But, if she truly loved him, wouldn't she have said something?

But he didn't want to be in love. Love was so common. Dull, boring, predictable. It was also so fleeting. And dangerous. It was the only thing with any real potential to hurt him. That one dreadful instance had caused him more pain than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted nothing more than to never feel it again. But how could he escape it?

He shoved these inconsequentially foolish thoughts out of his mind. He needed to focus. Where was he? Irene – oh yes, he would go to her. Maybe he wouldn't leave with her, but he would join her at 6 o'clock on the H.M.S. Oceanic.

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**A/N: Oh, Holmesie. So conflicted. Clara or Irene? He's got to make a choice. Please review, how awesome would it be to get to 400? Your feedback keeps me goingg :)**

**P.S. I'm going to be posting the beginning of the SH one-shots later today, so keep a look out!**


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Wow, we're getting pretty close to the end! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and hopefully you'll all enjoy this one!**

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**Chapter XXVI**

"Where have you been?" Watson greeted Clara as she ascended the stairs, precariously balancing a large paper bag filled with various items.

"You shouldn't be carrying that," he said, tearing the bag out of her grasp.

"I was just – " However, before she could finish, he thrust a small piece of paper under her nose. Her blue-green eyes quickly scanned the parcel. Oh _no._

"Where did you find this?"

"It was on his desk."

"He didn't…" she started, dreading the answer.

"He did."

Clara's expression instantly dropped and she hastily made her way to her room – she needed to get behind closed doors before Watson could see her suffer. Tears were pricking the backs of her eyes – she didn't even try to stop them. Many, many feelings were rushing through her body, but the most prominent one was betrayal. Unbelievable. No, actually, it wasn't. It was very Sherlockian. Except she'd thought they were past that. She had thought that she was special, that he would stick around. But no, he was going to push her away like he had done before. They were back to square one. She was about to shut herself in her room, but Watson wedged his arm in the door, preventing her from closing it.

"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously.

"What do you mean? I want to be alone, can't you understand?" she snapped angrily.

"You're just going to let this happen?"

"You think I have any control over this situation? Do you honestly think he would have left if I did?"

"You need to tell him how you feel, Clara."

"What do you mean – I feel for him the same way you do."

"Oh, please – no you don't. This is no time for you to keep up those silly pretenses."

She stayed silent – perhaps he was right, but that didn't matter.

"Fine, but don't you think he knows? He's one of the most brilliant men on earth; I think he could figure it out without me telling him."

"This is _Holmes_ we're talking about – he won't believe anything until he has solid evidence – he needs tangible data. And for someone so observant, he can really be blind sometimes. You're right, he is brilliant. But he fails to empathize with people – the one enigma that he cannot understand is that of emotion. It's his only shortcoming." _Well, maybe not his __only__ shortcoming,_ Watson thought. But now was not the time to be overly wordy.

Clara bit her lower lip thoughtfully before asking, "What time is it?"

"Quarter to six."

"I'm too late…" she started dolefully, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.

"No, you're not. You can still make it if you leave now."

Clara glanced at him briefly, and then hurriedly started down the stairs without a second thought. Watson was right – even if she didn't get Holmes to stay, she had to at least tell him how she felt. She couldn't have him leave without knowing the truth.

And so, she ran. Or flew, rather, would be a better description, for her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The only thing that mattered was reaching Holmes in time. It was only when she reached the boatyard that she realized a small wrinkle in her plan. There were hundreds – maybe even thousands – of people; she didn't even know where to start.

She tried to calm her racing mind and focus on the task at hand; quickly, she located the H.M.S. Oceanic. That was the first step. Next, she had to find where the passengers were boarding. Holmes and Irene would surely be among the first class, which meant that they would be boarding first.

She spotted them just as Irene was climbing the ladder onto the ship. Holmes was close behind. She rushed to the side of the boat as quickly as she could, calling, "Holmes!" repeatedly.

He heard her, but appeared to have difficulty figuring out just where the sound was coming from. He stretched his head above the crowd and allowed his eyes to dart quickly around the area. Once Clara was close enough, he recognized her immediately.

"Clara?" he asked in disbelief, stepping out of line. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

Irene, who was already onboard, looked at the two of them with undisguised frustration.

"Don't go, you can't go," Clara managed to get out while trying to catch her breath.

"How did you – ? Ah, you found the letter, I presume."

"Yes, but – I can't – I can't believe that you would – "

"Clara, it's not – "

"No, let me finish for once in my life. You can't leave. You just can't. You can't abandon Watson and me. What'll I do without you?"

"I'm not abandoning you," he said lamely, surprised at how affected she was.

"Come _on, _Holmes!" Irene cried in annoyance from over the side of the ship.

"I must go," he said.

However, before he could walk away, Clara grabbed his wrist, preventing him from doing so. Her grasp slipped down to his hand, and she allowed her gaze to drop to their palms. "Please," she begged weakly.

"I – I'm in love with you," she said awkwardly, finally looking him in the eye.

"I don't expect you to say it back," she added hastily, "I just thought you ought to know if you are to just up and leave like this. Although, I can't imagine that you didn't already, and I don't think that it'll change your mind about leaving. I just had to get it off my chest."

His gaze softened, but he seemed a bit flustered. She looked at him expectantly, but he didn't know quite what to do. In a rare moment of clarity, he thought, _Oh hell, these feelings aren't going to go away, so I might as well just enjoy them while I have the chance. Torturing myself isn't going to change anything. S_o, he tilted her chin up and kissed her softly. However, much to her dismay, he broke away prematurely.

"I'll be right back," he assured her.

Once he'd reached Irene, he said, "I was going to wait and verbally explain everything to you before doing this, but it seems I'm needed elsewhere. Irene Adler, you're under arrest."

"What?" she asked quietly, sure that she'd misheard him. She was still in shock from having watched him kiss Clara – he was supposed to be going away with _her._

Holmes felt a surge of triumph – finally, _finally_ he had outsmarted her. Her current state of disbelief made up for the two times she had outwitted him in the past.

"I said, you're under arrest."

"Why?" she half-shrieked.

"Oh, don't worry – I'll explain everything at the Yard." Of course, he knew she would escape almost immediately. But the satisfaction of having caught her – if only for a little while – was enough to put him in an excellent mood. That, combined with Clara's recent epiphany.

_(Later…)_

"Oh, Lestrade!" Holmes bellowed into the crowded halls of the building.

"What is the meaning of this, Holmes?" the inspector asked angrily, storming over to the overexcited detective.

"Well, now, is that any way to greet me? Especially when I've done you such an enormous favor. Tsk, tsk, you really should pay more attention to your manners."

"What is it?" he asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

"I've brought you a gift," he said, pushing Irene in front of him.

"Ah, Miss Adler. We meet again," Lestrade said.

"Hello, Inspector. I really don't know what the meaning of this is…"

"Well, I can think of several reasons why you should be here right now, but I look forward to hearing Holmes' explanation."

"As do I – I really have no idea why I'm here. This time, that is," she said sweetly.

"All in good time, all in good time. However, I'd like to wait for my associates to get here before I begin my account. I think they'll be wanting to hear this."

And so, they waited until Clara arrived with Watson. He'd asked her to go fetch him. Once everyone was seated and focused on him (a feeling that he enjoyed immensely), Holmes began his speech.

"Now, you all are probably wondering just what exactly is going on – you especially, Lestrade – and I intend to tell you. First, let me preface this by reminding everyone of the circumstances of the case. A few months ago, Miss Adler contacted me and informed me that her lover, Lord Hope, was missing a very important and expensive diamond. I found the situation to be intriguing, and I decided to investigate."

"It seems that Lord James Weaver held a party attended by several of his friends and their respective mistresses. At said party, he employed his usual staff of maids and cooks as well as extra ones. Among the extra ones was a waiter, named William Tress. Mr. Tress, as we later found out, is – excuse me – _was _the illegitimate child of Weaver and his cook, Katherine Graystone. The entertainment for this party was in the form of a troupe of travelling Indian musicians, the Patels."

"The diamond was stolen the eve of the party. Peculiar – it was stolen right out from under Miss Adler and Mr. Hope's noses. Peculiar, that is, until we found out that Mr. Gregory Blake, a member of Hope's social circle and avid botanist, had devised some sort of chemical that would put whoever ingests it into a deep, almost comatose, sleep. But, it turns out, Blake couldn't go through with his plan to drug his companions and steal the diamond – Hope was too good of a friend. Tress, on the other hand, had no qualms about doing so. He pick-pocketed the vial from Blake and drugged the drinks of all the partygoers – an easy feat, seeing as he was a waiter."

"But it only gets more interesting. Mala, a member of the group of performers, was pregnant with Tress's child, and they intended to pawn the diamond to live comfortably. That is, until they were killed by Hope's henchmen. But the pawning – that's where everything went astray. The diamond should have been there when we went to the pawnbroker's in France – there rest of the Patel family should never have got it."

"Wait," Clara interrupted, "what do you mean 'went astray'?"

"My dear, if you would allow me to finish. Irene had planned the entire situation – until the incident at the pawnbroker's, that is."

"Oh my gosh, do you honestly think that _I _could have orchestrated all this?" Irene asked in disbelief.

"I _know_ that you orchestrated all this."

"Please explain," Watson asked, voicing what everybody wanted.

"My first clue to realizing what'd happened was Irene's behavior after the incident – Clara helped alert me to that. My suspicions were negated by the fact that I didn't think Irene could pull it off – I didn't think she was a good enough actress, to put it in blunt terms."

Irene fidgeted in her seat.

"_Until_," he continued, "I stumbled upon an old American newspaper that had been lying amongst her belongings. The one I was reading on the train, Clara, perhaps you remember. It wasn't a very old one – only a couple months. It also wasn't very extraordinary, other than the fact that there was an article about a woman named Adele Riner in it. This woman bore a striking resemblance to Miss Adler, if I do say so myself. The article was an appraisal – it was commending her performance on Broadway as Ophelia in Shakespeare's _Hamlet_."

"This led me to question the reason for which she kept the newspaper. Now, I daresay, if Irene Adler is one thing, it is vain. It is easy to imagine her keeping an article about herself – I was quite inclined to believe that she was Adele Riner – the name itself is an anagram for Irene Adler. But something was odd – narcissists love to boast about their accomplishments. ("You would know very well," Lestrade muttered). So, why hadn't Irene mentioned her performance? Perhaps because she didn't wish to reveal her theatrical prowess?"

"But that alone is not enough to condemn her, I will admit. So I remained quiet. Plus, I couldn't quite place an incentive for the theft. A few weeks later, however, something extraordinary occurred. As Clara, Watson, and I were taking the train to Cairo from India, I noticed an international newspaper stand. They, like Irene's paper, were all outdated. I almost didn't pay them a second glance, but I remembered my discovery about Adele Riner and decided to scan through _The Times,_ just to be careful.

"I am immensely glad that I did. In it, I discovered an article that I hadn't seen before, which struck me as odd because I nearly always skim the crimes section. Even more odd was the fact that it directly pertained to the Hope case. It was an advertisement, written by Lord Hope, offering a reward for the return of his precious diamond. A ₤10,000 reward. Which, needless to say, is an incentive if ever there was one."

"So are you saying that Hope didn't know Irene was behind this entire scheme?" Clara asked curiously.

"Yes, that is precisely what I am saying."

"But how could Irene return the diamond to Hope? That would be terribly suspicious," Watson said.

"You are quite right, my dear Watson. I do not know the exact method of return that Miss Adler intended to employ, but, if it were I, I would hire an ignorant street urchin or some such character to complete the transaction. Someone who didn't know what they were trading."

"But what of Tress, Mala, and Blake's cooperation?" Clara questioned.

"You may recall that Tress and Irene seemed to know each other more intimately than a brief meeting at a party would permit. I believe that Irene secured his assistance by promising him the profits from pawning the diamond. I'm not entirely sure of how she enlisted Blake's botanical skills, but I think she might have commented on the diamond's beauty in front of his mistress, Miss Margot Smith, consequently making her jealous. She knew that Miss Smith would bring the matter to Mr. Blake's attention and insist that if he loved her, he would display his love in the form of jewelry." He said the last part in an especially mocking tone.

"But why would she go through all the trouble? Hope let her wear the diamond – he bought her all that she wanted," Watson insisted.

"Yes, but why not have all that in addition to ₤10,000? And she'd been with Hope for what, almost a year? I'm surprised he lasted so long – she was probably planning on leaving him soon. And I think the whole ordeal became much more elaborate than she anticipated, am I right Miss Adler?"

Her chalk-white expression betrayed her guilt, but she maintained, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"But why did she ask for your help if she had planned the entire thing out?" Lestrade finally spoke up.

"Ah, you see, Lestrade, that's where she made her first mistake. I do not know, but I suspect it is because she enjoys torturing me. This whole case added a little excitement to her otherwise-boring life, and there was a profit to be made from it. She thought everything was very controlled, but her second mistake was underestimating Hope's determination to retrieve his possession. She also failed to anticipate the Patels' religious affiliation with the origins of the diamond. All in all, her plan was not flawless, which resulted in its failure and the deaths of Tress, Mala, and Hope."

"Wow. _That's_ what criminal masterminds do when they're bored?" Clara asked in disbelief.

"Apparently," Holmes said.

"And where is the diamond now?" Lestrade asked dryly.

"Just a moment," Holmes replied, reaching up the first layer of Irene's dress. The diamond was sewn into the side of the dress, between the silk over-layer and her petticoat.

"Oh," she gasped flirtatiously, "Aren't you supposed to buy me a drink first?"

The detective scowled, but did not grace her with a response. There was the distinctive sound of fabric tearing, and then Holmes' hand reappeared gripping the enormous diamond.

"Well then, Miss Adler," Lestrade began, "That makes you responsible for a very serious theft and the deaths of at least three people. I'd say that gives me sufficient grounds to arrest you."

"You have to understand – if I knew what was going to happen to them…" tears were welling in her eyes. Holmes wanted to believe that it was true guilt, but, given her deceitful record, he didn't allow himself to.

"Tell that to the judge," Lestrade said, escorting her away.

Clara knew not to be surprised by Holmes' supernatural talent for deduction, but she couldn't help herself - she had never met someone so intelligent. And she was very happy that the case was over; the whole thing seemed to have lasted for nearly a century. But what gladdened her most about the whole experience was that Holmes had gone to the boatyard to _arrest _Irene, not elope with her. In fact, gladdened is not the correct word – her heart swelled with joy, a feeling that she had almost forgotten. It had been a very long time since she'd experienced proper happiness.

Watson left first – Holmes had to stay behind to give Lestrade the newspapers and other small bits of evidence that he had, and Clara elected to remain by his side. After what had happened, she was not keen on letting him out of her sight. Watson seemed exceedingly thankful that the two of them had reconciled – when she had gone to get him, she'd explained the circumstances of Holmes' being at the boatyard. The doctor was very proud of his friend – it was moments like these that reminded him of why he stayed with the eccentric detective in the first place.

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**A/N: Good God, it's so hard to make a Holmes romance story. Why did I choose this? I can imagine him loving someone, I guess, but it wouldn't be like a crazy love, I don't think. What I tried to set up with him and Clara was sort of a mutual respect thing that blossomed into a romance. Hopefully it's come across that way, so far. Please review, and let me know how you think I did in approaching this issue!**

**Oh, and by the way, I started a story for the TV show Sherlock! It's called _I Will Burn You_. Lol, I come up with the strangest titles. But honestly, I don't know what I think I'm doing, writing 3 stories at once. But if you saw the show and liked it, you should check it out!**


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER _the last_**

Once everything was properly sorted, Holmes hailed a cab to take them back to Baker Street.

"That was brilliant," Clara told Holmes, her eyes shining with admiration.

"Yes, well, it certainly took long enough."

"I know I've known you for almost a year, but I still can't believe how you draw such fantastic conclusions."

"You need to notice things that seem insignificant – oftentimes something's true informational value is not apparent until much later."

A few moments of silence passed, before Clara started, "Holmes, I – about earlier…"

They'd had conversations like this before. She showed him some sort of affection, and then apologized for it later. In turn, he would tell her to forget about it and pretend that nothing happened. That was just how these things went; he didn't do what he was doing now. He did _not _smile happily and put his arm around her. An awkward moment hung in the air - neither of them knew quite what to do next. But then, things got even stranger – he kissed her! A proper kiss, not just some peck on the lips as he had done earlier. A _real _kiss. With _real _emotion in it.

But the kiss was urgent; not soft, or tender. It was almost too much for her to bear. The moment his lips touched hers, a surge of fire travelled down her body and she pulled him as close to her as possible. But then, things took a different turn – Holmes soon had her pressed up against the wall of the carriage, his hands roaming to places they really shouldn't be… She couldn't imagine what had gotten into him… Usually _she _was the one who initiated all acts of affection. Which each fleeting moment of physical contact, the passion between them rose exponentially. Things were getting out of control very quickly - it was as if all the tension that had accumulated between them over the past few months was being released in one fell swoop.

A pothole reminded the pair where they were. Clara pulled away breathlessly and said, very half-heartedly, "Wait, stop. We can't…"

He knew that bump in the road – "We're on Wigmore Street. We still have approximately three minutes until we arrive…" Still, she tried to resist him, but his mouth on her neck was not helping matters.

"But the driver," she insisted in a hushed tone.

"He can't see us." He was working his way up to her ear...

"Seriously, Sherlock," she said, the lust in her voice subsiding.

"Fine," he said begrudgingly. He pulled away so quickly that Clara thought she might have imagined the whole thing. However, not before pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek.

The devilish manner in which he was grinning at her from the far side of the carriage made her heart beat a mile a minute. She had never been so flustered – her body felt so overheated that surely something had to be wrong.

And she was overcome with the desire to touch him again. She hadn't been with many men (really, she'd only kissed three others in her entire life), but she knew that things were different with him than they were with others – she knew her emotions were real. It wasn't like it was with, say, Tress. She'd let him touch her, but she hadn't enjoyed it; kissing him had felt like a chore. But with Holmes, it was totally different. _So_ different. Wonderfully different. Oh, and the way he was looking at her… it was so… so _evil_. It was driving her mad. She pressed her leg "inadvertently" up against his in some sort of attempt to make him as crazy as he was making her. Before they could make eye contact, she looked out the carriage window innocently.

When they arrived at Baker Street, Holmes practically threw his money at the cab driver, not even bothering to make sure it was the right amount. He grabbed her hand – he was leading them upstairs, which, normally, would be perfectly fine. But she suspected that he had entirely different intentions than he usually did. Which was _more _than fine. The man seemed to be on a mission. He opened the door to his room roughly, only to see Watson sitting and reading by the fire. The poor doctor looked at the pair of them confusedly.

"You need to leave," Holmes instructed his friend. She never pictured him as one to go into such a lust-fuelled frenzy.

"What?" He looked between the two of them. "Wh – Oh." Watson gathered his things and left so fast that one would have suspected the detective had just informed him that they were infected with the plague.

Holmes slammed the door behind the doctor, whose muffled voice could be heard asking, "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Don't know, don't care. Stay in Clara's room," his friend answered distractedly. He never did understand why women's clothes needed to have so many buttons…

Clara, meanwhile, had no sense of what was going on other than Holmes touching her. Nothing else even mattered to her, quite frankly. Her hands were in his hair – and then they were on his cravat, which was soon gone – and then they were under his shirt, which was also soon gone. And then they weren't in the sitting room anymore. And then they were on his bed. And then, and then, and then…

She was having flashbacks to that one night – the night of Watson's wedding. This is what she _thought_ had happened, but it actually hadn't. Holmes was in the midst of rectifying that reality. She allowed her senses to take over completely, and realized that his mouth did not taste alcohol, unlike last time. He was fully sober and knew exactly the choices he was making. Good.

In the midst of all this, the thought crossed her mind that what they were doing was entirely improper. _Beyond _improper. But she loved him – didn't that make up for her depravity? Surely if they were in love…

But were they? He'd never said he loved her. But he kissed her when she brought it up. Did that count as an admission? Or was it simply a way for him to avoid addressing the situation?

"Sherlock," she said between kisses, "I love you, I truly do. With all my heart." And it was completely true, as ridiculously sentimental as it sounded.

"I know," he mumbled into her hair. She frowned – that wasn't exactly the response she'd wanted.

He seemed to sense her disapproval, and he added, "I care about you more than anyone else in the world, Clara." He didn't really know what to say - he wasn't good at these things...

Better, but he didn't say love. She wasn't really thinking straight anymore, though, so she let it go.

_(The next morning…)_

Clara was absolutely petrified to open her eyes. She didn't want time to progress any further – she just wanted to linger in one moment for the rest of her life. She tried to gauge her surroundings by touch. The first thing she noticed was that her head wasn't lying on a pillow; that was a good sign. Oh yes, whatever she was nestled up against was surely human. This realization was enough to give her the courage to look around.

Light was pouring into the room in the form of a vertical column from between the curtains. And Holmes was next to her, sleeping soundly. He looked… relaxed. More relaxed than she had ever seen him before. She let out a sigh of relief and rolled on her back, grinning broadly. She was so happy – she didn't think she'd ever been so happy. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, which seemed to rouse him. He mumbled a bit, before shooting straight up and staring ahead blankly.

He sniffed rather loudly, and finally turned to her and asked, "Did we – ?"

Clara simply nodded and bit her lower lip sheepishly.

"I thought as much," he said, looking away from her again. He didn't seem to be too concerned.

"Don't you remember?" she asked worriedly.

"Oh yes, I remember."

"You don't – you don't regret it, do you?"

He looked at her once more, this time with more emotion in his eyes. "Of course not."

"This isn't another trick?" she prodded. She was pretty sure that it wasn't, but she had to be absolutely certain.

"I never use the same ploy twice," he scoffed.

There was a loud banging on the door.

"You two better get up – Mrs. Hudson's wanting to get in there," Watson alerted. Holmes could tell that he was trying to approach the situation very delicately – he knew what happened, but he was going to pretend that he didn't.

"Does she know we're both in here?" Clara asked nervously, trying to get ready at lightning speed. Holmes never did look entirely pulled together, so it was only natural that he was finished in a matter of seconds.

"No, but she will if you don't hurry up. It's almost ten, and she's looking for you. It's only a matter of time before she puts two and two together…"

Holmes opened the door and stepped out of the room before Watson could say anything else.

"You alright, old boy? You look a little pale," the detective said to his friend.

"I'm fine, I just can't decide whether I'm happy for you or disgusted by your lack of decency."

Holmes laughed and said, "I'm sorry to hear that. You slept well, I trust? I know I did."

Watson scowled at him and shook his head disparagingly. "There's no hope for you."

"And I wouldn't have it any other way. Now, shall we go and make sure Nanny knows that everything's just smashing?"

"Yes, that would probably be a wise idea."

_(Later…)_

Clara was left to contemplate her situation once Holmes had left his room. Things had changed so drastically that she didn't even know where to begin her thoughts. So, she just decided to finish washing up and join the rest of the house downstairs. However, not _too _soon after Holmes – she didn't want anything to seem suspicious.

"Clara, where on earth have you been?" Mrs. Hudson demanded shrilly.

"Sorry, Aunt Martha, I was asleep. I didn't get to bed until late last night," she replied.

"So you sleep until ten like some sort of prima donna? Do I look like I'm running a hotel?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Yes, well, don't let it happen again," she said more calmly. "I swear, constantly being around these men is ruining you. Actually no, just this one." She was pointing directly at Holmes.

"Oh, Nanny, how can you say things like that? Clara _loves _spending time with me, isn't that right?" He said, grinning at Clara like they were sharing some sort of secret joke – which they were, to some extent. She smiled back at him, and Watson fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Oh my God," Mrs. Hudson stated in severe panic, standing abruptly. "Clara, join me in the kitchen. Now." Oh dear, she knew.

Once they were out of earshot, the elder woman said, "You don't - you're not - you don't love him, do you?"

"Now, Auntie, just hear me out…"

"I can't believe it. Of all the people on earth – he's Satan incarnate, he is."

"No, he's a good person. Actually, he's better than good. He's wonderful – and he understands me."

"How could this have happened," she lamented, rubbing her temples. "And under my roof! Has he made any suggestions of marriage?"

"What? No, no."

"Oh, thank the Lord."

"You must understand though, that's not because of me. If he asked me to marry him, I would gladly agree."

"Clara, please don't say that – I don't think my poor old heart can take it."

"Don't you think you're being a bit dramatic? I mean, it's better him than no one, right?"

"Honestly, I don't know! He's probably the only person in the world that you'd be better off without."

"Are you serious? Do you know how many dangerously awful husbands there are? Compared to them, Holmes is Jesus Christ himself. I don't understand why you hate him so."

"That's blasphemy!" The conversation was quickly escalating to a shouting match.

"I can just never win, can I?" she continued as if she'd never been interrupted, "Everyone's angry that I have no interest in falling in love, and then when I do, everyone thinks I've made the wrong choice – as if I even did make a choice! I didn't ask for this to happen, it just did. That's how it's supposed to work, right? I mean, how can feeling like this for someone ever be wrong? And if I _did_ marry him, what would the problem be? He's financially stable, intelligent, kind – a perfectly eligible bachelor in all modern senses."

"On paper, perhaps. He's just so… _eccentric_. And I mean that in the worst possible way."

"And so am I, really. That's why we're compatible."

"Darling, you're not nearly as unusual as he is."

"Who's to judge my level of eccentricity? What matters is that I love him and that's not going to change – believe me, I've wished it would many a time."

"But, dear, _why_? He's pompous, inconsiderate, erratic."

"I can't explain it. And why do I even need to? Why can't I just be allowed this one small happiness?"

"Well," she said stonily, "if you intend to carry on this courtship, you must at least get engaged. I will not have you living in sin in _my_ home, that's for certain."

"Well, Clara," Holmes said from the doorway, surprising the two women, "we don't want to insult your poor aunt's virtue."

"How long have you been there for?" Clara asked flatly.

"Oh, I've been here the entire time - but don't worry yourself with that. Mrs. Hudson, I must say, I'm flattered beyond belief by your perception of me."

"Sherlock, you've had it coming for years," her tone was serious, but a perceptive onlooker would have been able to see a smirk twitch at the corners of her mouth.

"Perhaps you are right."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and left the room, allowing the two younger members of the party to remain and talk amongst themselves.

"But Clara," he said once she was completely out of earshot, "what do you think, would you condescend to marry me?"

"Are you serious?"

"When am I not serious?"

"About sixty-five percent of the time, if I had to put a number on it."

Holmes let out a genuine laugh, which was a rare occurrence.

"I'm serious," he said sincerely.

"In that case," she began slyly, "I suppose I could bring myself to marry you, Mr. Holmes. If I really _had _to."

**THE END**

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**A/N: Don't worry, there will be a epilogue, for those of you interested in the wedding details and such.**

**Honestly, I don't even know what to say. I can't believe this is over. It feels like someone died. Even though this is a pretty fluffy (OK, _really_ fluffy) and happy chapter, I was extremely sad while I was writing it because it meant that everything was over. I started writing about Clara last winter! It's been such a long time... And thank you SO much to everyone who has reviewed both this story and its predecessor, I can't even tell you how much it means to me!**

**But, if you liked Clara, you can probably look forward to reading more about her at some point.**

**P.S. I'm sorry if some of you think I completely ruined this entire thing by giving it a happy ending and having Holmes and Clara get engaged. But I like happy endings. And I think these poor characters have hung on for long enough to deserve a happy ending.**

**Anyways, PLEASE review! :) :)**

**XOXO**

**curlycue2102**


	28. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Holmes and Clara were so ludicrously far from the average couple that marriage really held no meaning. In effect, it was merely a legal method of carrying on as they always had without arousing public suspicion or scandal. Clara more was influenced by society than Holmes was, but even he had to admit that having to pretend not to hear the snide, catty remarks from his minor acquaintances _did_ grow tiresome. It wasn't as if he particularly cared about people's opinions of him – he didn't. But he did not wish for his business to be affected by the gossip. Plus, although he often lashed out at those he knew well, he _did_ try to at least be civil to strangers – he was a gentleman, after all.

By January, the invitations had been sent out – dark blue lettering on stiff, beige paper with a floral border. The wedding was to be held in April – hopefully the weather would hold up. Holmes had let her choose all aspects of the wedding apart from the dates. He was adamant about the ones he had chosen, though he wouldn't say why. Really, she didn't care to know. Her curiosity in his methods had faded with time, and now she knew enough to simply let him be. She was just thankful that she didn't have to see her mother's reaction upon receiving said invitation, for surely the poor woman must have gone into an epileptic fit brought on by happiness.

It was a small wedding, where Clara met Holmes' brother, Mycroft, for the first time.

"Congratulations. I'm delighted to meet you," he told her at the reception. He was much less abrupt than Sherlock, she noted.

"Likewise," she replied politely.

"I can't even begin to imagine how you did it! My little brother – married! I was shocked upon receiving the invitation, which is no easy feat." Holmes had never spoken much about Mycroft, and she wondered if he was as intelligent.

"At first, I must admit, I suspected the marriage was a necessity," he whispered, "But when I saw the date of the wedding, I knew that couldn't be the case. The time span between sending out the invitations and the actual date of the wedding was much too long." At first she didn't quite know what he was talking about, but then it struck her. So, perhaps Mycroft _was_ as clever as his brother.

"Not that I would expect Sherlock to do such a thing, mind you – he's not really one to sow his wild oats, as it were," he continued, "He is a respectable man, and if such a mistake _had_ been made, I'm sure that he would have taken responsibility."

"I assure you that is not the case!" Clara insisted, flustered.

"No, no, of course not, my dear. But, then, that begs the question – why _did _you get married?"

"I'm in love with your brother," she answered simply. Really, that was the best way she knew how to put it. And it was the most logical explanation, was it not?

"Ah, you see, I have no trouble believing that – you seem like a perfectly nice and normal girl. What I _do _have difficulty understanding is how on earth you got him to agree to such a commitment."

"Well, I like to believe that he reciprocates my sentiments," she said in a slightly offended tone.

He looked at her thoughtfully, but did not say anything immediately. She knew what he was thinking – he wanted to say that Sherlock could not love, but was too polite to do so.

"You must truly be an extraordinary woman to have captured his heart," he said finally. It was kind of him to say such a thing, but she knew he was silently trying to figure out the reason behind the union.

"It was a pleasure to speak with you," he said, before leaving her to greet the other guests.

"An artist from the country? Really, Sherlock? I thought you were attracted to murderesses and thieves," Mycroft whispered into his brother's ear once he was a safe distance away from Clara.

"Believe me, dear brother, this is a shock to me as well," he said lightly.

"She seems rather like Watson. Perhaps that is why you like her?"

"Perhaps."

"Are you happy?" Mycroft asked with genuine interest.

Sherlock, turning to face his brother for the first time since the start of the conversation, sincerely replied, "I suppose. I don't quite like the term 'happy,' but my life is moving along in a satisfactory manner, if that's what you mean."

"Then I am glad for you. The two of you are welcome to stay at my country house any time you please," the elder Holmes said, patting his sibling on the back. Before he left to talk to some of the other partygoers, the pair of them noticed a group of dull-looking girls passing by. Holmes recognized them as the floozies from Watson's wedding celebration.

"Who invited them?" Mycroft asked aloud.

"I don't know," Holmes replied, sincerely puzzled. Even _they_ wouldn't go to a party uninvited.

"Clara," he asked, going over to her, "who invited them?"

"Why, I did," she said nonchalantly.

"Do you mind explaining?"

"I wanted to keep things interesting," she said, smirking slyly.

He quirked an eyebrow.

"You know, in case you were to get bored and wanted to engage in a little social experimentation."

"Ah," Mycroft said, "Now everything makes sense. I was mistaken – you like her because she's like _you_. You always were quite arrogant, weren't you?"

Clara smiled devilishly and wandered behind the detective.

"Holmes," she whispered from over his shoulder, "you're not going to treat me differently now that we're married, are you?"

"I wasn't planning on it – why, do you want me to?"

"No, no, that's just it. I want everything to be the same between us. If you start coddling me I won't like you anymore," she teased.

Holmes couldn't help but snort – "Please do not refer to me and coddling in the same sentence."

Clara grinned at him, "As long as we're on the same page…"

Suddenly, he spun around so he was facing her and grabbed her around the waist. Her eyes widened in embarrassment.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, "We're in a public place!"

"We were just married, am I not entitled to this?" he asked mockingly.

"You're – you're"

"Intolerable? Insufferable?"

"I was going to say incorrigible."

"That was my next guess."

Someone cleared their throat loudly and the pair shot apart reluctantly. A few of the guests looked at them disapprovingly, while others seemed to find them rather endearing. Mycroft watched them with thinly veiled fascination. The only woman he'd ever known his brother to care about – truly care about – was their mother. He was having a very difficult time believing that his brother had, indeed, fallen in love.

He couldn't imagine that Sherlock had married without any ulterior motives – it wasn't the marrying that surprised him; he could envision him marrying if it helped with a case or some similar reason. But, in this instance, there was no apparent motivation other than the obvious. But, Clara had shown herself to be vaguely similar to Holmes (much more well-mannered, mind you)… perhaps there really was nothing more to read into.

On another note, Clara's mother was crying profusely. She was hanging onto her daughter, mumbling something about being so surprised and elated.

"My darling, I'm so proud of you!" she said ecstatically. She'd probably had a tad too much champagne… Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes – she'd done much more difficult things than get married – surely there were other things to be proud of her for?

"Thanks, mother," she said begrudgingly.

"So can I be expecting grandchildren anytime soon?" she asked eagerly.

Clara was sent into a violent coughing fit – thank _God _Holmes wasn't near enough to hear the question. Eventually, she composed herself and replied, "Erm, I wouldn't hold my breath."

To be completely honest, the thought had _not _crossed her mind at all. Although, she supposed it should have. They were probably expected to have children – it was the traditional thing to do. But, they were not by any means considered traditional. Did she even want children? She didn't know. She couldn't say she particularly did.

Plus, Holmes would be a terrible father. Truly awful. He would ignore the child or teach it to be just like him – either scenario was undesirable. If they did have a child, perhaps she could somehow get Watson to raise it… _He _would be a wonderful parent. No, no she did not want children – and she seriously doubted that Holmes did, either.

All in all, the reception went smoothly. As smoothly as could be expected, anyway. By the end of the night, anyone with half a brain cell would have been able to tell that Holmes was _not_ enjoying himself, but that was just a minor trifle.

Before the newlyweds left for their suite at the Langham Hotel, Mrs. Barker tried to give her daughter a bit of motherly advice regarding "the next step of her marriage," as she so eloquently put it. Clara just tried to grin and bear it; due to her particularly strong sense of self-preservation, she didn't dare tell her that her counsel was useless. She'd pulled her aside to a corner of the ballroom and begun whispering frantically – it wasn't hard to deduce what she was talking about. However, due to her mother's vaguely inebriated state, her voice was a bit louder than she intended it to be. Clara caught Holmes' eye from across the room and tried her best not to smile back at his devious smirk. She was quite sure that she wouldn't be needing any of her mother's advice.

_(The next morning…)_

"Sherlock," Clara said softly, "perhaps this is a little after the fact, but do you love me?" She had wanted to ask him for ages.

"A _little _after the fact?" he laughed. She looked at him seriously. "Fine. Yes, I do."

"Really?"

"No."

"_Sherlock."_

"What do you expect me to say? Why would I lie?"

"Fine, so you do?"

He didn't answer, but looked at her begrudgingly."You mustn't think that I am going to profess my love to you in front of some grand audience," he said.

Clara snorted. "I wouldn't want you to, anyway."

"Good, because then I might be having some serious regrets right now." This comment earned him a playful shove.

She got up and walked over to the window, which overlooked the street. That's when it hit her – they were _married_ – actually married. He was her _husband_. She didn't really like to think of it like that, actually. She didn't like the word husband. To her, he wasn't really her husband. He was just… Holmes. Nothing had changed – at least, she hoped it hadn't.

They'd opted not to travel for their honeymoon, but to just stay at the hotel for a little while. They'd been out of the country for long enough, that's for sure. Perhaps they'd go away another time, but not so soon. All of a sudden, there was a banging on the door.

Sherlock opened the door, and Clara was surprised to see Clarke standing sheepishly before them.

"Hello Mr. – and Mrs. – Holmes," he said. She was Mrs. Holmes. That was… awkward.

"Good day, Clarky. What can I do for you?"

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm really sorry about this – I tried to explain to the Inspector that you'd just been married – I mean, we were at the wedding, for goodness sakes."

"Out with it, man," he said impatiently

"I understand if you decline," he blathered on, "But the Inspector's making me ask anyway. We have this new case – truly, I understand if you don't want to take it – but the solution's escaped everyone at the Yard…"

Holmes turned to Clara, who locked eyes with him in understanding. Because really, who needed a honeymoon? Who needed to stay listlessly in a hotel? It was so boring. So dull. So common. And it wasn't as if they had anything better to do. She nodded, which was all the encouragement he needed. It had been, what? Around sixteen hours since their marriage? That was plenty.

"Let's hear it," he said excitedly. And so, the cycle began once again.


	29. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

Hi everyone, I'm just attaching this to the end of this story so that those of you who have favorited/subscribed will know that I've just posted a sequel to this. Please check it out!


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